Never Going Back Again
by Abagail Snow
Summary: In Panem you're either a "have," who lives in the Capitol District, the gated community on the north side of town, or a "have-not," who lives in the Seam, a field filled with double wide trailers. Those from the Seam will never call the Capitol District home. Modern Day, Part 1 of the "Rumours" series.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: This story takes place in present day US. Panem is a town in an undisclosed state (think of it like Springfield in the Simpsons) where class warfare has taken its toll on the community. Sorry this chapter is a little exposition heavy, but this story sort of parallels The Hunger Games, so I wanted to kind of show what's the same as in the book and what's different._

* * *

A loaf of bread. This is how it begins.

I'm at the checkout stand of Arena, Panem's only grocery store, leafing through a magazine. Gale is in the back office with the store manager, Mr. Undersee trying to barter on the price of today's haul. We won't get nearly as much selling to the market, that's why it's our last stop. First picks go to the people at the Hob, which is the field next to the Seam where we make our unofficial trades. Unofficial being off books, so paperwork is never filed and taxes are never paid. Selling to merchants is more difficult because they're liable for the quality of our goods and can't make many purchases from vendors without proper licenses.

But our goods are fresher than his and Mr. Undersee can appreciate that. We've worked out a deal where Undersee appraises the trade and "sells" us groceries at factory cost. Unfortunately in the dead of winter, the few meager chestnuts we've collected won't get us more than a carton of eggs.

February is usually the toughest. The plants we gather are frozen beneath a sheet of ice and the animals have hidden away to keep warm. We try to collect and freeze as much as we can, but there's only so much our small icebox can hold and by the tail end of winter our rations are limited.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a few crumpled bills. Our food allowance has run out for this month so we'll have to live off of spare change for the rest of the week. I long for the Spring, pray for it everyday. Some people put their faith in a groundhog to tell them when the heat will bring us relief. I'd rather just eat him. We need protein. I have enough for a jar of peanut butter, maybe, but as my eyes scan the store, I long for the sweet taste of fresh baked bread.

A sack of flour will take us further, but the compact oven of our mobile home is incapable of baking an even loaf. It's either too doughy in the center or too crisp in the crust. The only other option is the tasteless, mushy, over processed stuff that is barely passable as the real thing. A "Wonder" indeed.

For a moment I consider slipping a loaf in my jacket. It's loose enough to carry two or three and the elastic drawstring at the hem allows me to tie the jacket tight against my waist so the loaves are trapped without looking suspicious.

I've done it a hundred times before and judging by the sea of nervous gray eyes that clutch their arms tightly against their chest, I can tell that I'm not alone in the temptation. I refuse to fall into that pattern again. I provide for my family the honest way now. As honestly as I can at least.

Taking an animal from the woods is different than taking a cut of meat from the grocer, even if I don't have the right license to hunt it. There are hundreds of squirrels that line the roads mangled by asphalt and tires. Why is my clean disposal of the same rodent with an arrow through the eye punishable by law if performed in the wrong season? It's probably less painful for the little guy.

I shake away the thought and turn my attention back to my magazine. My eyes are barely skimming the pages. It's but a distraction from the food that surrounds me and the grumble in my belly.

That's when the bread falls.

I hear the plastic wrap hit the tile floor from across the market. Immediately my eyes lock with Prim's. She stands frozen in terror, the loaf resting inches from her feet. I hadn't even seen her wandering the store. She blends in with rich kids, whom we call "the Caps" with her sparkling blue eyes and golden blonde hair.

In Panem you're either a "have" who lives in the Capitol District, the gated community on the North side of town, or a "have-not" who lives in the Seam, a field filled with double wide trailers. The Seam is near the coal mines, in fact most of the people that live there are employed by the mines, and all of the inhabitants have a look about them. Dirty. Pale gray eyes. Dark tangled hair. Sometimes the classes mix. Usually it's a wealthy Cap using a Seam as his whore before abandoning her when the stick turns blue. But sometimes a Cap, like my mother will fall in love with a Seam, like my father and you'll get a pair of Mutts like me and Prim. Like most Mutts, I look 100% Seam, Prim however has the soft and pale features of a Cap. There is no middle class in Panem and those from the Seam will never attain the social standings to call the Capitol District their home.

"Were you trying to take this?" A man with a red vest and a brass name tag demands. I'm not sure why he's yelling. He's Seam too. There's no way a Cap would be stocking the shelves, not even the young ones pretending they'd ever have to work a day in their life to support themselves. Maybe the store deducts loses from their employees paychecks, maybe he had planned to steal that loaf himself. That's the only way I can imagine a man who's known hunger to get so worked up over something as simple as bread. "This fell from your jacket. Were you stealing?"

Prim gasps on air. Her eyes grow heavy with tears. Instinctively she begins to run.

She wasn't built for this. Most would excuse it as accidentally knocking the loaf from the shelf or say they were carrying it to the register. Prim is honest and pure though. She doesn't know how to lie. She's never felt the desperation before that would lead her to this because I was there to provide for her.

It was my job to protect her and I failed.

For a moment I want to strangle her. Why had she not told me she needed more? She knows that I'd do anything to take care of her. It's then I realize that she's trying to take care of me.

Prim barrels through a display case as I find my own feet taking flight. The exit doors seem to grow smaller, with each passing step. My sister crashes into a shelf in a blur of fair skin and a thin blonde braid and it topples through a window. Glass rains throughout the grocery store in shining clumps. Finally I reach her and I throw my body over hers to protect her from the falling shards.

"Prim!" I shout pleadingly. "What were you thinking?" I demand in a hushed whisper.

Her eyes are wide with terror as they search mine. It's then I see how hollow they are. Sunken into her beautiful face and forming purple rings beneath her eyes. Her cheekbone is too prominent for a girl of twelve years. They should still be full, chubby even, like that of a baby. She drops her gaze and silently allows for the few remaining pieces of stolen goods slip from her coat. I sweep them under the rubble of fallen shelves until they're lost in the wreckage.

I shake my head in disbelief, checking over my shoulder to ensure that the grocer hasn't caught sight of this. "Stay quiet," I instruct. I pause, waiting for her to nod in confirmation. "I'll take care of this."

"Katniss you can't," she says, her voice still trembling.

A Sheriff's Deputy appears in the front entrance and is met by the employee, who relays the events with wild gestures. The county Sheriff's office is notoriously corrupt. The Sheriff, Seneca Crane has been in the pocket of the Town Supervisor, Coriolanus Snow for years. And Snow has been sure to make the people of the Seam suffer at the benefit of the Caps.

"Who was it?" The Deputy questions.

Even if they dug up the security footage, there's no way the Deputy would peg Prim as the perpetrator. She's just a little girl and most importantly she looks like one of them. Prim move to speak but I deny her the chance.

Without a second thought I rise to my feet. "It was me," I say.

"Katniss," Prim says but I refuse to acknowledge her.

"Excuse me?" The grocer eyes me and then looks to Prim, his brow arched curiously.

"I was hungry," I explain. "I tried to steal this bread and I panicked. I'm sorry for the mess."

"But –." He begins but is cut off before he can continue.

"Let her take responsibility," Mr. Undersee and Gale have appeared now at the sound of the commotion. Gale eyes me carefully, his dark brows knitting together. "It's just a loaf of bread after all."

The Deputy looks me over with an incredulous smirk before turning back to Mr. Undersee. "But sir, your window. The shelves. You should charge her with vandalism or something." _Or something_, I wonder when they learned that crime in the academy.

"I can pay," I lie. Five minutes ago I was counting pennies for a jar of peanut butter. No way could I afford a pane of glass that size. Gale seems to be on the same wavelength because he drops his gaze with a shake of the head as if he's calculating the worth of our last material possessions and the tally doesn't even come close to covering the cost of this silly little window.

"Should we call her mother?" The Deputy asks.

"No, call Abernathy," Mr. Undersee says, a frown etching his lips. Mr. Undersee and I don't know each other well. His daughter, Madge works in produce here at the market and we're friends in a broad definition of the term. Madge is quiet and doesn't like to be bothered. I'm the same way. We have a mutual respect for that and so we keep quiet company. That way no one feels the need to approach us out of pity because we're never alone. We work well in this way.

But I don't speak often with Mr. Undersee. Gale handles most of the transactions because he never gets short changed in a trade. I'm too grateful for any scraps that I usually trade below its value. It helps in the Hob because there's a sense of loyalty so even if today's trade wasn't fair you'll get your money's worth tomorrow. In town though, they'll take advantage because they know you can't say no. Not that Mr. Undersee is unfair, but others are and I don't want to risk it. Mr. Undersee has always been kind to me and in this moment he frowns at me with a sense of disappointment. I'm not sure if he's disappointed with me or with my circumstance. It doesn't matter the reason. I feel shame either way.

"Who?" The Deputy wanders.

"Haymitch Abernathy," he says. "Her parole officer."

I bow my head because I figured at this point everyone has heard of Katniss Everdeen, the convict. My reputation must not have proceeded me to the degree I'd assumed because the Deputy merely scoffs, his cold blue eyes dancing in delight at the catch he's made. "Parole, eh?"

"She's almost through with it," Gale defends. "She's done her time."

I turn away to collect Prim in my arms, direct her to return home and not speak a word of today's events with our mother. Prim is reluctant, but eventually obliges.

While we wait for Haymitch, Gale helps me lift the fallen shelves back into place and we try our bests to restock the shelves with the scattered merchandise. Mr. Undersee insists that it isn't necessary, but we are loyal to our debt.

"What did you get yourself into this time, Sweetheart?" Haymitch asks dryly. Even his arrogance can't hide the trip in his swagger. Wonderful. My key to freedom is intoxicated.

"I broke a window," I say simply, barely looking away from the canned goods I'm organizing to acknowledge him.

"I bet," he chuckles.

Haymitch is the town pariah who has more money than God. He's one of the few citizens of Panem to make the leap from the Seam to the Capitol and the Capitol District hates him for it. His hair may be dyed blond now, but there's no mistaking his gray Seam eyes.

He was involved in some freak accident in town when he was 16. Forty seven teens died, including a few acquaintances of my mother. Haymitch was the only survivor. The legal battles were epic and Haymitch came out of the settlement with millions.

The trauma of this event had its effects on Haymitch, although he would never admit to it, and after spending his youth under the influence of various forms of liquor, he was sentenced to help with the rehabilitation of Panem's juvenile delinquents. Most of his parolees ended up back in the slammer within weeks of their release. I had been his crowning victory to the program, up until this today.

He throws his arm around Mr. Undersee and guides him out of earshot. I try my best not to pay any attention to them, but I find myself throwing glances over my shoulder towards their direction. Gale grows impatient with me as he tries to clean up. Usually our teamwork is seamless. We can guide one another without a word. A nod of the head, a series of pointed fingers,we're a well oiled machine that fall into sync with ease. Today however, I'm too distracted to recognize his order.

"It'll be okay," he says after I miss another of his cues for stocking the shelf. He places a hand on my back and I try to find comfort but I'm too overwhelmed by the anxiety of my possible fate.

"I can't afford to go back there," I tell him tightly. He only nods and returns back to replacing the fallen cans.

I know he feels guilty. That I was punished while he stayed behind. I don't blame him though. I trusted him to care for Prim and my mother while I was away and he stuck true to his word. Gale and I are alike in many ways; headstrong, loyal, stubborn, he is the only person in this world that I trust completely.

We should be in the system, they say. Gale's nineteen now and I'll be eighteen soon, we don't have to worry about being thrown into foster care anymore just because our parents are incompetent. It's the kids that I worry about. Gale's got three younger siblings. The youngest, Posy is barely five years old.

"We could do it you know," Gale told me once as we nibbled on blackberries out in the meadow. "Pack up the kids and take to the woods. Wouldn't have all those stupid laws telling us how to spend our goods. We'd live completely off the grid."

It was tempting. There was nothing for me in Panem and running away to another town or state wouldn't change our circumstances. Gale had graduated high school at least, but he hadn't the means to attend college. He could be a brilliant engineer if someone had given him a chance. He can look at any contraption and pick apart all the minor components with ease. That's why his snares are so brilliant. He just scans the woods as if it were a series of puzzle pieces then folds them together into something deadly. These skills are useless on a resume if you don't have an expensive piece of paper to go along with it. We once spent an afternoon looking at Help Wanted ads at the local university. "Line server," I had read from the board. "Do you think you could get _Good Will Hunting_'d there?" We try not to waste our time dreaming, but sometimes it's all you can do to hold yourself together.

Gale's got potential. Me? I'm hopeless. I'll probably never finish school. I was expelled for a year. It was supposed to be indefinitely, whatever that means, but there wasn't another school district in the county and even Haymitch's millions couldn't buy me into a private school. Being poor in high school is difficult enough. Being a poor convict in high school? Unbearable. I'm not particularly smart in any of the academic courses anyway, not like Gale. My only skills are archery and climbing trees. "You could join the circus," Madge offered during one of our brief offhand conversations. It wasn't meant to be an insult. She just knew if she hadn't said it, another Cap would and the tone wouldn't be gentle or forgiving. We had just received the results from our career aptitude tests. Mine read: _More Information Required_. My "career adviser" suggested I join the Army. She had a point. I'm in good shape for someone who hasn't had much to eat her whole life and I'm a hell of a shot, with arrows anyway, but I hate the government, why would I risk my life to protect it?

The woods is the only place that accepts me. "Build our home in the trees, live off the land," I had picked anther blackberry from our favorite patch and placed it on my tongue. The fruit burst with tangy and sweet juices. I had never felt more content.

But reality quickly struck and the juices turned sour. "Prim would never come. She's afraid of the woods. Besides, she'd never leave our mother." I picked for another berry but plucked a blade of grass instead, rolling it between my fingers and flicking it off in the meadow. "They'd never survive without me."

Gale could only nod, his face bowing to hide his disappointment. "Yeah, I guess it's just a crazy thought, that's all." Gale had known he couldn't leave either. The kids were too young to understand leaving their mother, Hazelle, and we both knew that there was no way we could bring her along. My father blew to bits when I was young, mining accident, it was easier that way. He was gone from our lives and would never come back. We had closure. Gale's dad on the other hand is worse than dead. He's a deadbeat. He comes around every couple of years and Hazelle welcomes him back with open arms. Love is a silly thing. He's got kids all over the state. Gale's never met them, but people talk about these things. Whenever his father comes around the food disappears and the money is all spent. Gale and I have to work three times as hard to keep the shelves stocked and even then it doesn't seem to be enough. If Gale were to leave the kids with Hazelle they'd be as good as dead, or worse, the state would "take care of them."

Haymitch chuckles loudly and I nearly jump. Across the aisle, he and Mr. Undersee shake hands and Haymitch pats him on the back a few times for good measure. The Deputy is reluctant, but eventually he leaves. Momentarily, I feel a sense of ease.

Haymitch is moving towards me now. His lips are pressed together tightly to force a smile. Pleasantries, they're all an act for him. "Six weeks, Sweetheart. That's all you had left of your sentence," he sneers in a hushed voice.

His breath is rancid from the liquor. I choke back bile but maintain my ground. Haymitch and I are stubborn, our entire relationship could be defined as a power play. "Cut to the chase," I say impatiently.

"Well you're not going back to the joint, if that's what you're worried about," he says. I sigh in relief, but Haymitch isn't here to make me feel better. "Not yet anyway," he adds coolly.

I narrow my eyes. "What does that mean?"

"Undersee isn't going to press any charges," he explains. "But there's still going to be a police report on file. The parole board is going to know about this."

"And what are they going to think of it? That I'm a danger to a glass museum?" I ask.

He's unamused by my humor. "Time will tell on that one. In the meantime, we're going to rehabilitate your image. You've done a pretty decent job flying under the radar thus far, hopefully this trip up won't hurt you."

"Fine," I say. "What do I have to do?"

"Since you can't pay for the window out of pocket, Undersee has agreed to let you work off your debt. An indentured servant, if you would. All that free time that you spend with your boyfriend over there," he points at Gale and I roll my eyes. I almost correct him but he talks over me before I speak. " – is done until that window display over there is sparkling and in one piece." Haymitch could easily pay for the damage without a dent on his liquor bill, but he knows I'm too proud for the charity.

"Let me too," Gale steps in. "We'll get it paid off twice as fast."

Gale knows it will take weeks to pay off this fee and weeks in the grocery store are weeks away from the woods and our livelihood. "It'll be okay," I assure him. "My SNAP card will be recharged next week and we'll spend more carefully this month. Your family needs you, Gale. You can't go about working for free."

Gale usually works in the mines, but in the winter time they often shut down or cut back the hours. They burn more coal trying to keep their workers from freezing to death than they harvest from the earth. Gale drew the short straw this winter. Some would call him lucky, but their pockets aren't empty like ours are.

"My haul is your haul," he reassures me. I feel comfort knowing they won't suffer in my absence. Food stamps keep you alive but they don't keep you from feeling hunger. Even if I could get out in the woods for a few hours at night it wouldn't be enough. We barely scrape by as it is.

Mr. Undersee brings me a red vest and I try it on to make sure if fits. Then he pins a brass name tag above the breast pocket. There must be a machine in back that prints these because it already has my name written across it. I inspect it. There's a bird on the Arena logo. I'd never noticed it before.

I won't start until tomorrow but there are papers for me to sign and he goes over a few basic rules. Don't eat the food. Don't drop the food on the floor. Don't take the food home with you. I'm almost insulted, but I'm reminded that these rules apply to everyone. Majority of Arena's employees are Seam though. Maybe I _should_ be offended. It's not like Seam kids are running around with loaves of bread stuffed in their jackets.

"Got all that, Kiddo?" Haymitch asks. I despise how cocky he can be. The way he grins at me right now makes me want to slap him.

The store is closed until they can get the window boarded up. We're about to leave when Mr. Undersee calls for our attention. "You forgot this," he says, extending the loaf of bread that Prim had attempted to carry out of the store. "Mr. Hawtorne we had a deal, correct?"

Gale nods shortly and accepts the bread.

"Was there anything else?" Undersee asks. He really is too kind for a Cap.

I'm too ashamed to speak but I feel a grumble deep in my belly. "The peanut..." I try to say but my voice catches. Am I about to cry? "Peanut butter," I finally manage to say. I reach into my pocket and pull out the crumpled bills, flattening them with my fingers to count them out. "This should cover it,"I say, but Mr. Undersee shakes his head.

"The trade," he reminds me. "Peeta," he calls over his shoulder. "Could you bring me a jar of peanut butter for this customer?"

_Peeta._ I know that name. And when I see his bouncing curls round the aisle, catch sight of his clear blue eyes, I remember why. Peeta Mellark saved my life.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Sorry if Katniss gets a little Veronica Mars-y. I'm sort of modeling a lot of the story around the series. It's a really awesome show if you've never seen it. Thank you to those who put the story on alert. Reviews are very much appreciated though, so if you're enjoying, please let me know!_

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Peeta Mellark and I are not friends. In fact, we have never spoken. No times that I can recall, at least. But when Peeta Mellark approaches me at the register on my first day of work, he acts as if we are.

"You're Katniss Everdeen," he says innocently enough. His eyes are the most beautiful shade of blue I've ever seen, even more lovely than Prim's. I nod slowly. "I'm Peeta Mel –."

"I know who you are," I say and drop my gaze to the register. I don't know why I'm being rude. I'm sure he's only trying to be kind. I barely know this boy and something about him leaves me on edge. Perhaps I'm bitter because he has so much and I have so little.

Peeta's family didn't make their fortune the same way as most of Panem. He wasn't born into luxury like majority of the Caps our age were.

Before he was elected Town Supervisor, Coriolanus Snow founded a company that specialized in the development of medical equipment and prescription drugs. They built several innovative tools that plastic surgeons used to erase scars and imperfections. Circenex didn't put its name on the map until the late 80's though, when my grandfather Leir Odair, a chemist developed a drug called Morphling, a semi-synthetic opioid that was cheap to produce and more concentrated than anything on the market. After the drug's release and approval by the FDA, Circenex's stock went through the roof. The company employed nearly three quarters of Panem. Overnight those citizens became millionaires.

There were no Mellark's on the pay roll though. They were a baking family. Through the 90's there was still some semblance of a middle class in Panem. Peeta's father was a third generation baker, I still recall as a child when they would hand out free cookies on Christmas Eve. It was the only time we could afford such a treat. Mr. Mellark sold his family recipe to some major corporation, who released them as a line of frozen desserts. Mellarkable Pies. You probably have one in your freezer. They have their own show on the Food Network now. People come from all over the country to buy his pastries. He even baked the cake for the last presidential inauguration. Needless to say, there are no free cookies on Christmas Eve anymore. Peeta may not be the richest kid in Panem, but he may as well be.

I could have been the richest kid in Panem too if my mother hadn't thrown away her billion dollar inheritance for love. I never met my grandfather. I'm sure he knew I existed. When he passed a few weeks after my father's untimely end, all of Panem mourned him. They decorated Circenex's steps with flowers and lit thousands of candles to celebrate him. We were not invited to any of these ceremonies, least of all to the reading of the will.

Maybe that's why I'm short with Peeta, because he lives a life that could have been mine, but I know that's not the case. I'm cold towards Peeta Mellark because he holds a debt over my head that no number of hours at a grocery store could repay. I hate owing someone and until I can think of a way to even our score, I will resent this boy.

He tries to shake off my surly attitude and his smile broadens in the process. "How do you like it? The job that is?" I'm not sure how to answer. This isn't really a job, I'm not getting paid and it's not like I'm here voluntarily. "I'm saving up for a car," he says to fill the silence. I nearly scoff. The Mellarks have no less than ten cars in their driveway. He must read my incredulous expression because he bows his head with a chuckle. "Well I have to pay for the insurance at least." Peeta's one of those few Cap employees at Arena that pretends he needs a job, when really it's more like an after school activity for him.

I feel my blood boil. "I'm saving up to keep my sister out of foster care," I say harshly.

"I'm sorry," he says. "That was a stupid thing for me to say." He runs a hand through his blond curls and takes a deep breath. "Let me try this again. You're friends with Madge?"

I'm losing patience with this boy and his pleasantries. In my experience, there is no such thing as casual conversation. Everything comes with a price, but I owe him, so I humor his prompts. "Sure," I answer dully. I balance my chin in my hand and pluck a few keys on the register with the other.

"Me too," he nods a few times. "She's cool, huh?"

I punch a few more buttons and the drawer of the register pops open with a series of chiming bells. "Do you like her or something?" I snap. "Because I'm really no good at that romance stuff. You're better off just talking to her yourself."

I'm never getting married. Love is nothing but a burden to everyone it haunts. I've seen my mother become a broken shell of a woman, seen Gale's mother, Hazelle throw her pride away, I've even felt the pangs in my heart myself when I remember my father's smile or see the sparks of life fade from Prim's eyes. I have enough worries in my life to deal with that inconvenience.

I see the kids at school, wrapping themselves around one another declaring that their love is like no other, that their survival depends on this undying flame, that their passion will burn longer than any star in the sky. Two weeks later they're wrapped in a different set of arms announcing the same thing. It seems foolish to me.

"No," he says, but his eyes dart away quickly and his cheeks burn a shade of crimson.

I've grown tired of trying to decode his motives. Slamming the drawer to the cash register shut, I lift my chin to acknowledge him. "Then why are you talking to me?"

"Just trying to make conversation, I guess." He tucks his hands into his pockets and scuffs his boot against the clean tiled floor. I've offended him apparently, which isn't a surprise since I've been awfully rude. I feel guilty for a moment. Peeta is kind, I know this to be true, but I can't bring myself to trust him.

"I'm kind of busy," I say, even though there isn't a customer in sight.

"Right," he nods politely. "I've got bread bins to fill anyway." With that he turns on his heels and walks off towards the bakery department.

Outside, it has begun to rain. I can feel it now. The chilling winter air. The drops of water that strike your skin like ice. I'll never forget that day.

I had just been released from the juvenile detention facility. Gale and I were not speaking at the time. I wasn't angry with him, but there was something keeping me from seeking his company. I understood why he was reluctant to see me again. It's for the same reason I can barely look Peeta Mellark in the eye. Some debts are too great to pay.

My mother had lapsed in her mental stability in my absence. The paperwork for the federal and state aide we had been receiving hadn't been renewed and the cupboards were bare. Gale had been leaving a basket of food on our porch every week using the left over funds from our illegal business venture that hadn't been seized by the Sheriff's office. His father returned to town a few weeks before my release however, cleaning out the Hawthorne's in his usual way. Gale struggled to keep his word, but there was nothing he could do.

It would take several days to process our paperwork and based on how listless Prim had grown in her weeks of starvation, I feared she wouldn't make it through the weekend. I couldn't sit home any longer to await our inevitable fate. Desperately, I took to town in search of any scrap of hope.

I could fill my coat with goods, I considered as I passed by the market. My father's hunting jacket was large on me, my frail frame barely filling the heavy material. I could fit an entire shopping cart in it with room to spare. But then I thought of Prim and her gaunt cheeks. I couldn't spend another six months away from her, leaving her to fend for herself. I could no longer steal. I was being watched.

It was raining that day, when I dragged my self to the county offices, pleading with any clerk who would listen to rush my paperwork. "There are shelters you know," they told me plainly, barely looking away from their computer monitor to acknowledge me. There were shelters, but the closest was 40 miles away. I could barely carry myself the eight miles to the county office and I'd heard enough stories of hitch hiking along the interstates through Panem to ever lift my thumb for a ride. I'd be as good as dead.

The walk home had been unbearable. My knees trembled with every step and eventually my feet began to give out as well. I stumbled against the sidewalk and caught myself on the edge of a trashcan. It had been freshly emptied and it toppled beneath my weight. It was then I was struck with an idea. If garbage collection was on that day, then Arena would be dumping all of their expired and rotten food.

This was before Mr. Undersee owned the market. Back then, Peeta's mother ran the place, before his father became America's favorite baker. Some grocery stores donate expired goods to second hand stores, where your SNAP dollars can be stretched further if you don't mind the lettuce being a little brown or the cans being dented. Mrs. Mellark had a reputation however, and did not want it to be tarnished by providing a store with diminished goods. She was liable for the quality after all. More importantly she despised the charity. She could make all the money back with tax deductions and still refuse to participate because those who were not worthy would benefit.

Mrs. Mellark used to dump all the prepared food daily. Soups, sandwiches, salads, that sort of fair. Once a week expired dairy and produce. And on that one day a month when all the stars aligned, canned and dry goods would be dumped as well. People in the Seam marked this day on their calendar. It was like a grand harvest of slightly rancid yet edible foods. It wasn't much. Divided between all of us it made up a meal maybe two, but on weeks when days could go by without even a crumb, these scraps could revive your resolve.

Then one day she noticed all the gray eyes circling her dumpster like vultures. She even shooed us away with a broom. From that day forward, trash day was the only day unpurchased food left Arena's doors mere minutes before the trucks were scheduled to arrive. If I ran, I thought maybe I could beat the truck and so with strength I hadn't been able to access before, my feet began to move. One after the other, quicker and quicker with each stride.

He was carrying a pair of garbage bags to the loading dock when I arrived, the rain coming down in heavy sheets that stung like needles against my skin. I didn't know his name at the time, but I recognized him from being in my class at school. His eyes flickered in my direction and I dropped to the ground hoping I hadn't been caught. The ground was slick with mud mixed with spoiled food. I wretched at the rancid smell knowing that if I could wait for just a few moments longer, it would be well worth my while.

"Is that the last of it?" I heard his mother say. There was a long stretch of silence and I feared that I had been spotted. "Is that the last of it?" She repeated.

"Yeah," I finally heard Peeta say. "I think so."

I waited carefully. Listened for the creak of the heavy door to snap shut. Then I was on my feet, trying to find the best path to climb up the slick wall of the dumpster. I missed the ledge on my first attempt, but I could hear the sound of the backup alarm on the garbage truck as it aligned with the loading dock. I launched off with my wobbly knees one more time and gripped tightly on the dumpster's edge, the rubber of my boots sliding against the metal wall with choked shrieks.

Suddenly light flooded from the back door of the grocery store and in a panic, I released my grip, crashing against the muddy ground with a thud. I choked on my breath as it was stolen from my lungs upon impact.

"A whole rack!" I heard Mrs. Mellark exclaim through the open doorway. "How does someone knock over a whole rack?" And then I heard it. A harsh crack too deep to be a whip. Peeta's cry was the kind that makes your heart stop for a moment. "We can't sell this! It's crushed! Ruined!" There was another crack and I jumped as if it had struck me. "I can't even look at you. You worthless creature!"

The door slammed shut again. Through the sheets of rain I could hear his muffled sobs. I wanted to escape. To run away from his misery. But then the sack of garbage hit the ground, sending mud around in a splash that landed on my boots. I hesitated to move. He didn't necessarily throw this to me, the pain of whatever his mother had whipped him with may have made him too weak to reach the dumpster. Carefully I peered around the edge of the metal wall to see him clutching his side in pain. He gasped for air, but gained his composure when our eyes met. He nodded quickly towards the sack by my feet, then turned back to the door and disappeared.

I scurried towards it, felt heat radiating off its surface before my fingers clutched the thick plastic surface. It was filled with fresh bread, still warm from the oven. Rolls, a few cookies, some pastries, whole loaves, a few bagels. It had to have been half the stock for the next day's bread bin. He'd be working through the night to restock the loss. I almost left it behind, too guilty to accept this gift, but in the next moment I was running home with the sac grasped greedily in my shaking hands.

We ate a whole loaf that night. In the morning we feasted on muffins. "Garlic," my mother had said as we sliced into a hand full of rolls the following evening. She went to the shelf and pulled out a binder that I hadn't seen since before my father was born. Flipping through the pages she stopped on a page with a dried sprig of wild garlic pressed against the sheet. "Your father used to pick this at the edge of the meadow. It tastes just like garlic. Would taste wonderful with these rolls."

I ran my fingers over my father's neat writing and turned a few more pages. I'd seen some of these plants before but never thought anything of it. I scooped up the book, grabbed a basket from the kitchen, and took to the meadow where I filled it with lush plants that I could match to each page. That week I dug out my father's bow and arrows from the trunk in our living room. I didn't have the money to buy a hunting license and I hadn't checked for what was in season. I doubted I could hit an animal if I tried. I'd only gone out with my father a few times when I was young and that was for target practice into the base of large oak trees. But on the third day of following a squirrel through the woods, I hit my mark.

Through this time, Gale and I grew back together. He had stumbled upon a similar epiphany during an obstacle course in gym, when half the class got caught in the same binding of netting. He'd been studying snares in his free time and on one afternoon when I was targeting a rabbit, a twig snapped and the rabbit sprung from the ground until it was hanging helplessly in the air. I had approached the trap to study the intricacy of the design, my finger tracing along the thin wire to follow its path when I was met with a pair of worn leather boots. The owner cleared his throat, and I nearly jumped out of my skin when my gaze met a familiar pair of gray eyes. "You better not go ruining my catch with your arrow," he grinned. I felt my own lips curl into a broad smile. From that day on, Gale and I became a team again.

My life began again because Peeta was the only one willing to invest in me. How do you repay someone for that?

I look over to the bakery department and find Peeta watching me from across the store. Perhaps he's remembering that day in the rain too. I hold his gaze longer than I usually would until he is the one who is compelled to look away. I'm no good with words. I never know where to start. I'll never be able to express my gratitude to this boy with the bread, and so it will hang between us, like a whisper that no one can hear.

Haymitch slams a bag of pork rinds onto the register belt and chuckles, shaking me from my thoughts. "Look at you sweetheart, working an honest job for once." He blots his finger under his eyes as if he were crying. "Brings a tear to my eye," he says.

I glare at him for a moment before sliding the bag across the scanner. "Will that be all?" I ask.

"I'm on a liquid diet," he says. Haymitch leans his elbow on the counter and watches me with an amused smirk.

"I bet," I reply. Undersee will need a liquor license before he can get more than a little pocket change from this patron. I eye the bag suspiciously. "Did you have a craving for a sports season, or are you just looking for an excuse to see me?"

Haymitch presses his lips together and leans closer to lower his voice. "I have news, about your parole." His face has grown somber and I think our little round of banter has come to an end. "The verdict's in," he says. "Apparently you're not very likable."

"And this is news how?" I question. I was never in the running for any Miss Congeniality awards.

"These people are your champions," Haymitch rips the bag of chips open, right at the register, and pops a few rinds in his mouth with a crunch, crumbs sputtering from his mouth as he continues to speak. "They're the ones putting their necks and reputations on the line so that you can find new ways to disappoint them. They want to see a rags to riches story. Some kind of rehabilitation that will inspire Lifetime to trip over themselves to gain the rights. And what do these heroines have in common?"

I imagine a conference room filled with a bunch of suits reviewing court cases as if they were screenplays. Passing over the stories they don't find entertaining enough. It's sickening.

"They're portrayed by an assortment of washed up starlets who can't land a pilot on ABC Family?" I ask dryly.

"They're girls you can root for," he says, and crunches another rind between his teeth.

I scowl at him. "And I'm not?" I try to feign innocence, but I know it's not my strong suit.

"It's my job to like you and I find it a challenge," says Haymitch. "They're apprehensive that serving the remainder of your term on the outside was a good idea."

"And they're just itching to put me back in stripes," I conclude.

"It took some convincing, but we've struck a deal. They don't feel like they know the real Katniss Everdeen, so they'll be watching you." He tips his finger past my shoulder and when I follow his gesture, I see a small camera positioned in my direction. "They'll be collecting the store's security footage for their review to decide if you've truly been reformed."

My eyes remain trained on the flashing red light. I've always been aware of the cameras, but suddenly they seem invading. That these strangers will be watching my every move. Judging me. Choosing my fate. "So I act as the model employee," I say carefully, "and I'm in the clear?"

"There's more," he says ominously.

"More?" I ask.

"It isn't good," he says, as if my poorly concealed anxiety hadn't already indicated the obvious. "Snow's after you." I nearly choke with laughter. Most powerful man in the town of Panem has decided to take on some poor little convict? "It's a campaign year and Snow's got some plans for the community. He wants to incorporate Panem. Turn it into a city."

"What does that have to do with me?" I ask.

"More than you think," says Haymitch. "Incorporating means more specific regulations, additional taxes, private services, Panem's own police department, expensive street lights and pretty little sidewalks." I'm still not following and Haymitch seems to recognize that. "Snow's driving out the lower class."

"He can't do that!" I say. "Isn't that something that's voted upon? Who would pass it?"

Haymitch laughs in my face. "You're not the only citizen in Panem, sweetheart. Municipalities exist for a reason. They have perks too."

"Paying more taxes so Panem's name appears on the side of a garbage truck? Sounds like perks for the rich to me." I narrow my eyes. "Why is Snow pigeon holing me over this? I'm a seventeen year old girl, not a politician."

"It's no secret that you're one of the ring leaders of that little black market around town," he says.

I blink a few times. The Hob is considered a black market? Like we're trading illegal weapons and stolen organs underground? More like trading yarn and fresh berries. Sure some of the goods are stolen or acquired through poaching, but it's certainly one of the less impressive crime rings I've ever been made aware of.

"But more importantly, there are quite a few people in town who are inspired by you. Class tensions are rising. When one half of town hates the other, it's hard to get anything done."

"Inspired? By me? How?" I question. "Five minutes ago you were telling me how unlikable I am. Now I'm too likable?"

"I never said they liked you," Haymitch says quickly. "They admire you. You may not carry the Odair name, but people know it's there, you don't realize the effect that has."

The idea is ridiculous to me. That I could inspire anyone in this town. Rarely do I cross someone in town who doesn't turn their nose at me. It's laughable, the idea that they'd ever follow me. "These people have watched me starve for years, I doubt my heritage carries much weight."

"Do you honestly think Undersee needed your help to pay for that window?" He asks pointing at the boarded wall. "That's what insurance is for." I consider this for a moment and again the image of Peeta and his gift of bread invades my thoughts. "Like it or not, you're a threat to Snow's campaign. Anti-incorporation activists are going to be tripping over themselves to make you their poster child."

"Good," I say stubbornly. "If Snow wants to drive us from our homes, we won't leave without a fight."

"Need I remind you that Sheriff Crane influences your release as well. There's a laundry list of crimes they can charge you with like that," and he snaps his fingers. "You're their puppet, sweetheart."

My eyes lift back to the camera that lurks over my shoulder and I force a false grin. If my family's survival depends on a show, then a show Panem will get.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Thank you to those who put the story on alert. Reviews are very much appreciated though, it helps me with my narrative to know that all the story elements are being conveyed cohesively. It also makes a story so much easier to write when you know there are people out there who like what they read._

* * *

One of the fundamental rules at the Sherwood Juvenile Correctional Center was to always play the part. When the guard's back was turned it was fair game, but as soon as a pair of eyes with a night stick were in view, you were an angel. The "nicest" girls were always the most dangerous.

Johanna Mason wore a bow in her hair. A bow. She would volunteer for laundry service and kitchen duty, she would be vulnerable and cry during group therapy sessions, she would even read the Bible aloud from her cell. Johanna Mason was the model prisoner, mere hours away from an early release when she stabbed another prisoner in the throat with a butter knife. All because the girl cut in front of her in line for stewed peas.

Johanna Mason is both an inspiration and a cautionary tale for me.

My next few weeks at Arena are this way. I smile until my cheeks hurt. I laugh lamely at jokes I don't find amusing. I even work through my lunch break to show my dedication. Always sure to flash my grin at that little red light that peers over my shoulder.

For all of my attempts, Peeta seems to negate them with his effortless charms. He bags groceries when my line grows too long. He loads heavy items into customer's carts that I'd never be able to lift. He sometimes brings me cookies, claiming the decorations are botched, but I never eat them. I make a point of turning to the camera every time I refuse to be sure that they see. By the time I've turned back to face him, there's always icing on his lips. He has no reason to fear insubordination and it shows.

In our down time, Peeta sits at the empty register across from me and flips through magazines, pointing out various articles or discussing school activities I have no interest in. I amuse him with curt nods, but am too focused on my own mission for survival to pay much attention. Once, while he's restocking the candy boxes at the checkout he says something that catches me off guard.

"Did you know our parents used to date?" He asks off hand, as if it were as simple as the state of the weather.

I'm incapable of comprehending this for a moment. My parents lived a lifetime before me. It's hard to remember that at times. It's strange to think that my mother could be with someone besides my father. That she could smile the way she used to when he'd nuzzle her neck in the privacy of our kitchen. I don't put much faith in love myself, but my mother stopped living when my father died. It's hard to imagine her sharing her heart with another when she loved him so completely.

"Why do you think that?" I ask him, even though I rarely engage in conversation.

"For yearbook," he explains. "It's a Quarter Quell for Panem High. They do one every twenty five years, like a special edition or something. I was going through the last Quell and came across the class couple. It was my father and your mother. Crazy, huh?"

I try to picture my mother holding the baker's hand. She'd be rich. My grandfather would certainly have approved. Inadvertently, I touch a hand to my braid. My hair would be blonde if the baker were my father and my eyes would be as blue as Prim's. But suddenly, I feel a pang in my heart that betrays my father. I try not to give into love, but there's no denying the love I feel towards my father and my sister, Prim.

"Your mother was really pretty in the picture," he says in the silence. "You look just like her."

I've never seen my mother's beauty, but I've heard many stories of it. She has fair skin, golden hair, and soft blue eyes; none of these features we share. Yet when Peeta says it, it seems so genuine that I feel my cheeks burn. "That's not true," I say with a shyness I hadn't known I possessed.

"It's subtle," he says. "The coloring is off, but your smile. It's the same."

He leaves then and I find myself watching. Is that why the Mellarks are kind to me? Because I resemble a love that Mr. Mellark has not forgotten? But the fondness that Peeta shows for me, it seems unique. Not a debt that he's inherited from his father's loss. It flatters me, yet at the same time leaves me on edge.

"You know for a girl who can track an animal through the woods based off instinct alone, you are deaf, dumb, and blind when it comes to basic human psychology," Gale had told me when I confided in him.

Sunday morning was when we hunted now. The mines were open again and Gale was working from dawn till dusk during the week. I was at Arena only a few days during the week, but on the weekends I worked double shifts. On Saturdays this began at 6AM On Sundays, however I didn't start work until 9.

The woods had been kind in the last few weeks as spring had begun to awaken from the uninviting depths of winter. There still weren't many plants to collect, but the animals weren't as alert, having just awoken from their season long slumber, making them easy pickings.

I looked up from the rabbit I was cleaning, setting aside the entrails for Buttercup and Greasy Sae to battle over later. "What do you mean by that?"

"He's sniffing around you all the time because he likes you," he replied with a chuckle.

The idea was preposterous. Peeta wasn't in need of company, especially mine. At school he was rarely alone. Caps traveled in packs after all and he was no exception to the rule. There must have been at least one Capitol girl who fancied him. He was kind after all and if I chose to indulge in such thoughts, I'm sure he'd be considered attractive by most.

Besides that, why would he have any interest in me? Was it my glowing indifference towards him? Or my sparkling rap sheet? I'm not nice, I'm not particularly pretty, the only skill I possess that I find admirable is my hunting, something a Cap living the soft life would rarely appreciate.

"Guys aren't picky," Gale had explained. "They don't need much of an excuse to like a girl. Sometimes they don't even have to be pretty."

I'm not sure if he meant to imply it, but I began to think it. Caps were picky when it came to parading a girl on their arm down Main Street, but when it came to occupying the backseat of their car on an abandoned stretch of road, any old Seam would do. It's something about power, I'm sure. Cap girls don't need anything from them, they've got a limitless credit card that their daddy pays for. A Seam girl on the other hand will do anything if it means there will be food on the table.

Peeta's intentions have not been clear. If he wants something from me, he's yet to make it apparent. But the quick moments we share at my register, it makes me think he's inching towards something. It's the uncertainty of what that something is that haunts my thoughts.

The day can not end soon enough, but before closing comes, Haymitch appears.

"News?" I say before he can alter my mood with my somberness.

"They like you," he says dryly, cutting to the chase. "With the boy."

It's not surprising. My thoughts can not escape the boy with the bread today.

On top of that, the parole board is no doubt made up of Capitol residents. They take to their kind, and Peeta isn't unlikable. He has a way with the crowd, probably from his years in front of a camera for his father's show. Obviously the parole board would take to him.

"What does that mean?" I question.

"You alone? Forced," he explains. "You with the boy? Vulnerable. They like that." He buys a pack of gum for my troubles, and with that he leaves.

I lock up my register and sweep the area around it. Arena's only open till ten, but there's rarely a soul that passes through the doors past dinner time. It makes closing easy because you're not shooing customers towards the exit while going through the cleanup routine. I head towards Mr. Undersee's office to drop off the cash bag. He's huddled over his desk, bathed in a dim light, reviewing purchase orders. He smiles warmly at me and I nod.

A soft flicker catches my eye in the corner of the room. It's an image of the checkout stand. I recognize my register under the sign for aisle twelve. The image holds for a minute and then flashes to another corner of the store, produce this time. Then the deli counter. Then the butcher.

"May I help you Miss Everdeen?" Mr. Undersee asks.

I jump and my eyes snap back towards him. I want to see all the vantage points. I want to know where I'm being watched. My tongue stumbles over words for a moment and I glance back at the security feed. It's my register again. "No," I say, the moment lost. "Have a good evening."

I'm overly alert as I pass through the aisles of the empty store. Every corner my eyes catch seem to flash the red light of the Captiols watching me. Their eyes sniveling red beams that lurk over my every move.

I've been good, I remind myself. I haven't done anything wrong. Not within the walls of Arena anyway. There was nothing for me to be worried about. But what if it wasn't enough? What if the corruption that's swept through Panem swallows me whole. Who else will it take? Prim? My mother?

The market is mostly dark, but a light pours out from behind the door to the bakery kitchen. Peeta sometimes works past closing when he has a large order to fill. _They like you,_ I hear Haymitch say again. _With the boy._

I hate that my life depends on Peeta. I have a hard time relying on anyone. My mother and I relied so completely on my father that we could barely put the pieces back together once he was gone. I'll never be that broken again.

The light taunts me as I attempt to pass. What did Haymitch mean by _with him_? That they like when Peeta talks to me? If that's the case, there's nothing that I need to change. Peeta talks to me all the time. But what if Peeta grows tiresome of the waiting game he's playing? I haven't been very receptive towards his advances, he'll take the hint eventually and back off. But where will that leave me?

And what if I do engage him? What will he expect of me? Will I be his friend? His girlfriend? The girl that he only meets within the depths of night? I don't have a choice on the terms. It's Peeta who holds the rules of the playbook and he's kept those pages close to the vest.

My hands ball into fists at the thought of selling myself. But haven't I already? I've sold my labor to Arena, my privacy to the parole board, my spirit to Snow. What's my body worth? Not much, I assume.

I approach the door to the kitchen, my hand lingering against the metal surface.

_Your move,_ I hear the camera over my shoulder sneer.

Peeta is hard at work preparing dough for tomorrow's sale, his arms covered in flour to his elbows. He rolls vigorously, his muscles tightening under his white tee shirt before he folds the dough in thirds and begins to roll again.

"Hey," he says, startled to see me.

My eyes reflexively scan the room for cameras, but there aren't any back here. "Hi," I reply.

Silence quickly falls between us and I feel as if I'm losing my opportunity. "Closing time," I say awkwardly.

"Not for me," he says with a broad smile. "I've got an early morning order to fill."

My feet are frozen in place at the doorway. How do people carry on inane conversations? Gale and I talk all the time, but it's about things we have in common like hunting or survival. Peeta and I have so little in common I have no idea what to say to him. I scan my brain for possible questions. Things that Peeta would ask me if we were sitting at my register. "What are you making?" I finally land on.

"Cheese danishes," he says. "Circenex has this big meeting the first Monday of every month. They always order fifty dozen cheese danishes because they were King Leir's favorite," he frowns then because he realizes he has said something he probably shouldn't have.

I shake the reference to my grandfather and take a few steps towards the stainless steel counter top. "Need any help?"

"It's okay," he says. His eyes are cautious, sizing me up. "You don't have to."

I approach him, dig my hands into the dough. "You're always helping me," I say as sweetly as my inexperience can muster.

"Fine," he says with a nod. "On one condition," our eyes meet and I notice that Peeta's confidence and easy charm have returned, "you have to try one when they're done."

We continue to fold dough and roll dough until it is a tiny square of infinite layers. Next we prepare a silky filling of sweet cheeses and small bits of apple. "Secret ingredient," Peeta explains, then holds a finger to his lips to indicate the confidentiality.

Once the dough is chilled, Peeta rolls it out for the thousandth time. "Why do you still work here?" I ask him once he's begun scoring the pattern for the danishes. "Why don't you work at your father's shop?"

"It's no fun there," he says with a shrug. "They don't even use the original bakery anymore. They make everything at this huge warehouse and then ship it to the store as if they were just in the oven. The only time my dad bakes anymore is for the cameras." He frowns, "Besides, when people are paying five grand for a cake, they don't want some kid baking it."

"Your dad is very good," I tell him. "I remember the cakes he used to display in the windows, before everyone started ordering silly shaped cakes of shoes and dogs and things. He used to make beautiful six layer cakes covered with the most incredible flowers I had ever seen."

"That was me," Peeta says sheepishly. "I used to decorate all the cakes."

I feel my cheeks turn pink and hope that he assumes it's from the heat of the ovens and not from my embarrassment. "Still," I say. "Why here? Long hours and minimum wadge? Seems like hard work for money you don't need."

"Because I don't want to play the town's games," he says. "There are so many rules. Who can be friends with whom. Who deserves luxuries over others. Who should have walls placed in front of every opportunity because they live on the wrong side of town. It all seems silly to me. I don't want to be a part of that."

I don't know how to respond. Perhaps I had misjudged this boy.

We finish preparing the pastries. I scoop heaping spoonfuls of the cheese filling onto the dough and Peeta folds them neatly and brushes on a buttery glaze.

When everything is in the oven he approaches me. "Thanks," he says, as if he couldn't have done it without me.

I don't let anything happen in the kitchen. There isn't any proof back there. He leans in to kiss me, but I turn away. "I left my jacket at the register," I tell him, when everything has been cooled.

I sit and wait at my podium for Peeta to arrive. The red light in the corner blinks, alerting me of its presence. I close my eyes tightly and force it out of existence.

He's pulling on his jacket when he follows me out of the kitchen. There's a smear of flour across his brow. It's cute. "I'll see you tomorrow," he says shyly.

I'm no good at this game and I'm losing my opportunity. I have to figure out a way to make him stay. He seems to recognize my terror because he approaches me then. "You okay?"

My lips feel impossibly dry and I bite my bottom lip between my teeth. Peeta's better at this than me and I hope he picks up my cue. _Kiss me_, my body screams, but no words form. He lingers closely but makes no move to close the distance. He's leaving that choice with me. Challenging me almost.

"I'm fine," I say, but my breath catches in my throat. I've never kissed a boy before. Never even considered it. I've had so many other concerns in my life, there hasn't been the time.

Peeta's lips are pink and smooth. They curl into a grin that causes a burst of air to explode in my chest. Foreign, but warm and not unpleasant. My hand shivers as I lift it to trace my finger along the streak of flour on his forehead. His head chases after the contact, leaning his cheek against my palm.

My throat is tight, making it impossible to swallow. I chase my fear. Closing my eyes tightly to take the leap. My lips quiver before they find his. Firm, sturdy, warm. I'm not sure what the next move is, I was hoping that he'd take the lead, so I just hold my mouth pressed to his for a long moment. I draw away, leaving my head bowed.

I can feel his fingers tangled in the hairs at the base of my neck. "Can I drive you home?" His murmur is a strangled whisper.

He expects more, I realize, but I don't let my worries show. "And risk getting coal dust on your rims?"

"I'll take my chances," he chuckles.

The ride to the Seam isn't very long. It's only about a mile's drive. I keep my eyes trained out the window, my teeth chewing nervously on my finger nails. Every side street we pass I expect him to pull over. To dim the headlights and demand that I earn my keep. But it never happens. He pulls up to the edge of the lot where the Seam meets the meadow.

"Should I walk you in?" He asks. I shake my head. Offering him a shy smile as I slip out the door.

"Katniss wait," he say, clearing his throat expectantly. Terror spreads to the tips of my fingers as I turn and duck my head back into the door. "We had a deal, remember?" He says.

My heart drops and my lips go dry. I thought I had misjudged Peeta Mellark, perhaps I was wrong. I crawl across the passengers seat of his SUV, unsure of the terms of our deal. He stills me however when he holds up a white paper bag. "Your danish," he says.

My cheeks flush and I retrieve the bag, my eyes unable to meet his. "Thanks," I mumble, ashamed that I've judged him again.

It continues like this. Peeta remains in my orbit but he never pushes for anything. He only follows my lead. He holds my hand when I reach for it, he kisses me back when I kiss him, but that's where it ends. It only exacerbates my suspicions of him.

I wonder if he even wants the physical aspect I've engaged or if he's just humoring me to keep my friendship. That Gale was all wrong about him and his crush, and Peeta only shows me unconditional kindness because of his father's fondness for my mother and his distaste of the Caps versus the Seam. I've all but convinced myself that this is the case, putting my mind at ease until he abruptly kisses me right in front of Gale.

"What was that about?" Gale asks, his eyes, like mine following Peeta as he marches back to the bakery department with his broad chest puffed out.

"I have no idea," I answer honestly.

"That kid was marking his territory," he explains, and I can't tell if he's amused or annoyed.

I'm not sure how to respond. I feel guilty for some reason. We've discussed Peeta in the past, but that was before the kissing began. Now it feels wrong. Like I'm betraying Gale. Throughout our entire friendship, Gale and I have always been strictly platonic, but I can't deny the part of me that assumed we'd one day settle together. I never planned on love or marriage or children, but Gale's companionship has always been important to me.

At the same time I also feel ashamed. I'm playing a sick game, using Peeta for my own gain and it makes me feel dirty. My skin crawls when I feel the security camera breathing on my neck, the way my body moves to please it.

Gale recognizes my discomfort and shrugs with a sad chuckle. "I just didn't realize you were that kind of girl, is all," he says.

He says what is on my mind and I'm enraged for it. I lock up my register and flick off the light above it in a hurry. I can't even look him in the eye, I'm so angered by his accusations. I take off down the cereal aisle, but am stalled when he catches my arm.

"Katniss," he pleads.

"What kind of girl?" I bark, my arms flapping wildly causing him to retreat a few steps. "The kind of girl that spreads her legs to the highest bidder?"

He holds up his hands in defense and lowers his voice to calm me. "I was going to say the marrying kind," he explains, and risks a step closer. "I didn't think you were interested in all that romance stuff."

"I'm not," I confirm. My body relaxes, no longer on the attack. The weight of guilt still consumes me and I can only drop my gaze to the white tile floor. "It's nothing serious," I mumble almost inaudibly.

"Is it?" He asks, but this time there's a lilt of accusation to his voice. This time he is realizing my true intentions. Gale takes another step closer until our toes are nearly touching. He bows his head to speak with discretion. "Katniss, what are you getting yourself messed up in?"

I know I've been caught. Gale knows me too well. But I'm too stubborn to reveal my hand. "You didn't seem to think it was a big deal before," I say, referring to his teasing out in the meadow a few Sundays ago.

"I never thought you were seriously considering it," he reasons. "Joking about that kind of stuff is different than acting on it. You know how people talk about girls like you mixing with guys like him." He frowns and shakes his head. "He's one of the richest guys in Panem," he says, his voice incredulous. "You know what they'll say."

"He's not like that," I say, and I find myself putting space between us. Because every word of gossip that is spread will be true.

"He's a Cap, why should I think otherwise?" He demands. "They're already holding you prisoner!" I've told Gale about the parole board, but I haven't mentioned anything of Snow. Gale's more passionate about politics and social injustices, he'd never approve of me playing along with Snow's games. He'd take action because that's the kind of guy he is. I can't afford to take those sorts of risks though, I try to pick my battles wisely and this one doesn't seem worth the fight. "Did you know they want to turn the meadow into a country club? It's part on their whole incorporate Panem plans."

I freeze. "You know about that?"

"They've been talking about it down in the mines," Gale explains. If they're talking about it in the mines, then word will be spreading fast throughout the Seam. Snow would be watching me closely through this crucial turning point. "A lot of guys are talking about moving to the thirteenth district before our land becomes worthless."

"Worthless?" The land of the Seam has never been prime real estate and I don't understand how incorporating will make it any different.

"The lines have been drawn," says Gale. "We're getting cut out."

"That's good though, right?" I ask. No extra taxes. No private police force breathing down our necks. No additional restrictions.

"Not even close," he chuckles bitterly. "They're basically building a wall, all the poorer districts like the eleventh and twelfth, their value is going to plummet when Panem leaves them behind. All the county's wealth is centered on the northern districts and the thirteenth and their county seat wants nothing to do with Snow's plans."

"What are you getting at?" I demand.

Gale squares his shoulders. "That hopefully once they turn the Seam into a parking lot when they can buy it up for cheap, that Loverboy will let you park your trailer on his seven acre estate."

He turns to leave, and when I open my mouth to speak, I'm left speechless.

This wasn't a part of the deal. I was to behave and my reward was to be returned to a life of poverty and squalor uninterrupted. The worst outcome was some additional taxes. Never were we to become homeless.

I wonder why I'm allowing Snow to play the puppet master when there is no positive outcome for me. If I push his agenda I may not be put away, but at the same time I won't have a place to call home. I'm damned if I challenge him and I'm damned if I play his game.

And why had Haymitch not warned me of this outcome?


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Thank you for all the reviews/alerts/favorites. I really appreciate the feedback. It's incredibly encouraging. Hope everyone out there continues to enjoy! I really liked writing this chapter._

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Haymitch rarely comes to see me anymore, which means I'm either doing something right, or that he's hiding something from me. With campaign posters both for and against incorporating Panem creeping up throughout town, I can only assume that he's hiding something from me.

Things with Gale are tense as well. He expects me to join his rebellion, and a part of me wants to, but I'm hesitant, unsure if it's the right move for my family. If incorporation fails and I'm leading the charge, I'll be sent to prison on some technicality from my laundry list of inconsequential offenses. If incorporation succeeds, a new battle will be waged for our survival, but it seems manageable for now. Gale doesn't understand my reasoning, he sees the bigger picture for the livelihood of all of Panem. I'm selfish I guess because I only care about the safety of my family.

Peeta, surprisingly, becomes the only person I feel I can trust. Everyone has expectations. Hoops that I must jump through to earn their approval. With Peeta however, it's different. Nothing seems to disappoint him. The moments we spend together in Arena are now the only times I find myself at ease. I no longer wait for him to approach me, I now seek his company in the bakery department.

"What happens to two day old bread?" I ask him. I lean against the day old rack and cross my arms across my chest.

He picks up another plastic wrapped loaf and inspects the date on the label before placing it on the cart. "Feed it to the birds I guess," he shrugs. "This kind of bread gets too stale after a day or two."

"Nonsense," I say and pick up a loaf of my own to check. "Stale bread with an egg wash is the perfect breakfast treat. I hear it's all the rage in Europe."

"France?" He questions with an amused grin.

"So they say," I say, and hold up my chin with arrogance. "I wouldn't know, I only own vacation homes in Barcelona, Naples, and Athens."

"Mediterranean girl, eh?"

Although my mother's name was Irish and my father's English, my father was a melting pot of Greek and Italian heritage as well, giving us our darker complexion. He'd show pictures of the seaside villages that his family originated from. The water always so sparkling and beautiful. "I'm like a fish," I tell Peeta.

Peeta picks up another loaf and places it on the rack. "French toast is plain though, it's too bland."

"That's what maple syrup is for," I argue.

"Expensive," he says carefully, knowing that he's skating along risky territory.

"Not if you make it yourself." I don't have any trees in my backyard because I don't have a backyard, but the woods along the interstate are lush with giant maple trees. In the winter, I tap as many as I can while still being discreet. The trees are county property after all and while they're not utilizing their resources, they don't want others using them either. Maple syrup is one of the few luxuries we allow ourselves. By the time the sap we've collected is boiled down we only get about six ounces of syrup. We usually trade half of it, if we can't manage, but what we keep we savor.

"What else do you make?" He asks, his eyes alight with wonder. Peeta's the type of guy who has food handed to him on a daily basis. He's never had to hunt for it. It's always available to him.

"Clovers, dandelions, scallions, you can gather all those in the meadow. There's also a great berry patch we make jams with. Those are the easier finds because you don't have to hide it," I explain. I'm not sure why I'm trusting him with this information, but I continue anyway. "It's when you get into the trespassing and the fine able offenses like tapping trees or hunting and fishing without a license in restricted areas."

"So you really go around the forest shooting rabbits with a bow and arrow?" He questions. I hadn't known my livelihood had been such a source for gossip.

"The bow is mainly for sport," I say. "Snares work better sometimes because they're simple to set in the morning and you can come collect them at the end of the day."

"Is that why you were..." he trails off and his eyes flit away like he's ashamed of what he's asking.

"Arrested?" I only started hunting and gathering after my release. I figured everyone in Panem knew of my sordid tale. He probably has, but in a town laden with gossip it's hard to pick out what is real and not real. My crimes were heavily covered in the local paper and even though I was guilty, only about half of the articles printed about my story were true. "No," I say. "I killed someone."

Peeta isn't surprised by the news, he only nods. "Glimmer," he says, his voice barely breaking a whisper. "So it's true. You were the TJV dealer?"

Tracker Jacker Venom.

After my father's death, my mother checked out. She used to be a highly regarded nurse at County General, but after a few errors in medication distribution to patients that almost cost them their lives, she was let go and essentially black listed from the medical community. Her job was the only semblance of order that she had left. A gentle thread that kept her tied to sanity. With that broken, she lost track of everything. One would think her own children would be reason enough to keep fighting, but every time she looked into my large gray eyes she'd see my father and drift farther away. She once avoided my pleading gaze for an entire month. "You're gone," she'd mutter repeatedly, scratching her fingers across my face until I turned away.

There were days however, that she would come back to us. Not many people in the Seam have medical insurance and my mother became invaluable for providing the care needed. It was the order that she needed to hold her fragile self together. Her practice proved to be difficult without medicine though, and when the only payment her Seam patients could provide were trades of food and clothing, my mother was forced to find alternatives. She had learned many basic combinations from my grandfather, who made his fortune off the development of prescription medicine. Natural remedies that were just as effective as the expensive chemicals he used.

Night lock for example, is a poisonous berry, but only the skin is toxic. The meat of the fruit can be juiced to form a sleep serum, that she used in lieu of anesthesia. For a sedative, she found that using the venom of a tracker jacker would calm patients. Tracker jackers are an aggressive breed of wasp that carry a venom that is poisonous to humans. In small doses it causes hallucinations and paralysis, in large doses it's lethal. There were hives of these insects all along the edge of the Seam and nobody dared travel near them. My father knew tracker jackers couldn't survive the first freeze and would clear out the hives in the late fall. With this knowledge, my mother collected a hive the morning of the first freeze, when the the wasps were in shock and their venom still recoverable. She could only make a batch a year with this method, but it proved to be invaluable.

A buzz began around the drug starting in the Seam when a group of kids swiped a vial from our home. Interest spread quickly in Panem High, where I was a freshman at the time, because of the recreational potential. It all seemed silly to me, the idea of poisoning one's self on purpose, so I ignored the demand for more.

My mother had good days, but still was often unreliable. There were weeks where she'd never leave her bed. She'd only lie on her side and stare out the small window over her dresser, waiting for my father to come home. Neighbors would give what they could. They all loved my father too and needed my mother well to take care of illnesses and injuries. When you're already stretched thin, a cup of soup split three ways doesn't go too far. It was the thought that counted.

With the little money we had, I'd put on my father's hunting jacket and head to the market. It was important to always buy at least one item so no one suspected anything. My jacket would be filled to the seam with bread and canned goods, but I'd only buy a gallon of milk or whatever was on sale that week. This method was difficult in the summer when it was too warm to hide in a jacket.

One morning when I scavenged through the empty cabinets for the fifth day that week, I broke. Prim and I would go another day clenching our stomachs while we struggled through our hunger. We didn't deserve this fate. I slammed shut the empty cupboard and stalked towards my mother's medical chest. Ripping open the lid, I pushed aside the dwindling supply of herbs and collected a dozen vials of the clear liquid. When I returned home that afternoon, my pocket was filled with twenties. I had never held that much money before in my life.

It was then that Gale took interest in me. We had grown up living only a few homes apart, but he was older than me by two years and we never interacted much. His family was in a similar situation and he too was struggling to provide. He wanted in on my burgeoning business, but my supplies were out. It would be another year before I could replenish it, waiting for that first freeze. Gale was smart though and found a way to expand. He developed a trap for the tracker jacker hives so we could catch them all through the season. Cap kids were tripping over themselves to get their hands on what had been dubbed TJV and they had no concept of money. You could charge them a hundred bucks for a vial that cost five cents to produce and they'd think they were getting the better end of the bargain.

The full vial would leave you tripping and nearly paralyzed for a few hours, but a couple of drops on the tongue gave you about an hour of hallucinations.

Glimmer had three vials injected directly into her blood stream, the equivalent of sixty tracker jacker stings, when she was found dead outside of a bonfire in the woods. In the blink of an eye every Cap finger was pointed in my direction. Gale was a junior at the time and would have been tried as an adult. I was just a little girl so I took the fall. The drug wasn't illegal, it hadn't even been recognized by the FDA. Cap lawyers are paid to overlook these things.

"Did you ever use the stuff?" Peeta asks, his voice hushed so we don't draw any attention.

"Sometimes," I say. "When times are really bad. It's like an escape."

He frowns, "I thought the venom reacted with fear, wouldn't that just make things worse?"

"It reacts with the chemicals in your brain," I explain. "Most people are terrified when they see a tracker jacker so when they're stung they have horrible hallucinations. I'd find any good moment I'd stumble upon, like a fulfilling meal and try to hold onto it. Whenever I was full, I'd use the venom and it was like I'd never known hunger."

"Do you still have any?" He asks, and his curiosity makes me hesitate to answer.

I toy with the leather cuff I wear around my wrist. Tucked in the pocket is a stone used to sharpen arrowheads that I inherited from my father and a small vial of TJV. I only started carrying it again after my sentence began at Arena. Prim's suffering had drawn her towards a life I'd tried to protect her from, Haymitch was threatening to send me back to prison, and now Gale and I were fighting. I hadn't used any, but its presence made me feel safe.

Peeta's eye catches my finger toying with the edge of the frayed leather. His hand covers mine and his large finger slips beneath the pocket. "Can I try it?"

I shake my head and draw my hand away.

"You think I'm soft, don't you?" He says.

I fill my arms with a few loaves of bread to distract myself and begin to sort through the dates. I consider that perhaps he's teasing me now. That he's pulling my leg to see how far I'll go. "The first time we met you told me you were saving up for a car, like it was for fun," I say with a giggle so that he knows I'm playing along.

"My life's not perfect, you know," he says. My eyes meet his and I recognize a pain that I saw a lifetime ago through the rain. A boy, selflessly throwing a sack of bread to a girl with nothing. The harsh crack against his skin as punishment.

"I do," I say, my hand reaching for his.

He squeezes my hand and clears his throat. "My mother..." he begins, but I silence him with my fingers. His eyes turn cold. He lifts the edge of his shirt and turns his back to me. There's a round patch of puckered skin the shape of an egg at the base of his back. It's shiny and pink against his pale flesh. "I burnt a batch of bread once. She put a spoon in the oven and struck me with it, so I'd never do it again."

I touch the shiny scar with my fingers and he flinches. "Peeta," I murmur. I draw my hand along the plane of his back, my fingers dipping into a canyon of shallow welts, no doubt from past whippings. "Why?"

"Because of the reminders," he says, and his eyes stay focused on a point past his shoes. "That he'll always love her more."

My touch lingers along his warm skin. I try to withdraw my hand, but I can tell that the physical contact is comforting to him. I press my palm flat against his back and his body shudders beneath it. "Who?" I ask.

"Your mother," he says. "My mother, she hates me for loving you. It reminds her too much of the way he loved her."

I gasp at his confession. Peeta and I had barely spoken before a few weeks ago and these scars trace back to years of abuse. The heat of his skin is suddenly too much for me and I pull it away as if it were on fire.

He turns and catches my wrist in his hand. "Take me there, Katniss," begs Peeta. "Please."

Peeta has given me so much. This is the least that I can give to him.

It's barely eight on a Saturday morning. The store will be dead for another few hours. No one will even notice we're missing. I glance at the red light across the store that is watching us. We're not safe here. I take his hand, locking my fingers with his and lead him across the aisles towards the stockroom. We'll be safe there.

I push through the large swinging doors and wait for them to rest into place with their usual crash. Carefully, I tuck my fingers into the leather pouch to retrieve the small vial. Peeta inspects it with caution, but never questions me.

"Stick out your tongue," I tell him as I twist off the cap.

"Hold on," he says, and he reaches into his pocket for the fold of cash tucked in his jeans. "How much?"

"It's on me," I refuse.

"Please," he says. "Let me."

I sigh, "Fine, twenty." Usually for a Cap I'd charge fifty for this dose, but since I plan on slipping the money back to him anyway, the number isn't important. He pulls a twenty from his fold and hands it to me before sticking out his tongue.

I remove the cap to expose a wand similar to the kind used to blow bubbles. I tap it against his tongue and then dip it back into the vial to repeat the procedure. The normal dosage is much larger for maximum effect, but it lasts several hours, which we cannot afford. These few drops will give him a brief high, similar to being intoxicated, that should subside within the hour. "That's it," I say when I'm done.

He nods. "Now you," he says and takes the vial from me. I shake my head but he slips another twenty into my hand. "Now you," he repeats. He dips the wand into the vial and holds it out to me, determined to repeat the routine. "Come with me," he says, and his blue eyes lure me towards him. My mouth opens and my tongue slips out and I feel the numbing liquid drip against it. Once my dose has been administered he leans in and kisses me, his lips foreign against my numb tongue. He pulls away, his eyes wide as the drug consumes him.

The door creaks and we take off running but when I glance over my shoulder, there's nothing there. The room seems to morph around me. Rows of shelves and crates begin to bend and twist like branches of a tree that weave into a forest. Colorful prints on the labels of boxes seem to bleed into tears that flow onto the concrete floor. I feel Peeta's arms wrap around me as he dives into a cardboard cove, where we are protected from the woods around us. We're safe here in the cave until the storm passes.

The length of his body stretches across mine and I'm consumed by his warmth. I seek his lips with hunger and explore his mouth with my tingling tongue. I can't get close enough to him, I realize when our limbs are completely tangled. His hands grip my cheeks and he kisses me firmly, but it is not enough.

Our hips fuse together and I feel a growing heat that shoots from my core to the tips of my toes. He moves against me and I gasp. I've never felt such delicious ecstasy before. His hand ventures from my cheek and I feel his fingers along the column of my neck, gaining courage as they brush the side of my breast. I hiss at the sensation and wonder how such a primordial sound could be encouraging. He brushes his hand past again, causing me to cry out and I can feel his satisfied grin against my lips.

He pulses against my thigh again and my hips instinctively lift to meet his. Our lips continue to tangle furiously as we fall into a rhythm. Touch, lift, thrust, gasp, kiss. It's unlike anything I've ever experienced. The drug continues to cloud my brain with lust as I buck my hips against his. His broad hands slip beneath the hem of my shirt, his smooth fingers igniting shivers up my spine with every inch of flesh they come in contact with. His palms grasp my bare breast. Folding and kneading them with expert precision like dough he has prepared a thousand times before.

We continue to move together. Our bodies molding with fervor only excelled by the high we are riding. Every muscle in my body clenches around him, desperate to hold onto this sensationg. The pressure between our hips drives me wild. He moves more quickly, his breath growing ragged and it ignites a new pleasure between my legs. It grows and grows. Climbing to a peak that I can't reach. Suddenly our movement stops and I begin to fall freely back to earth. "You are amazing," he murmurs into my hair.

I struggle to catch my breath, trying to force the words to form. "Why me?" I finally ask.

He's calm now and his fingers run gently through the hair that's escaped my braid. "My father told me once that when you love someone, everything stands still, even the birds in the sky." He pauses to press a kiss to my temple. "I swear since the first time I saw you, I've never heard another bird sing."

I curl my body against him until I mold into his side. "That's probably because I've shot them all," I say lightly.

His smile is so warm as he begins to chuckle that I want to hold onto it forever. I steal it with my lips, drawing the curve of his mouth to memory. The perfect smile that I will always keep.

We lay there for a while, tangled in our cardboard cave when he finally says it. "Is there anything going on between you and Gale?"

I can feel his heartbeat in my ear when he asks. Steady and strong. I wonder how he can picture anyone else in this moment. "No," I answer honestly.

"Okay," he answers with a content nod. He slides away from me, leaving a void from his delicious warmth and climbs to his feet. It takes me a moment to recognize him leaving but in a moment he is gone.

I draw my knees to my chest. I can still feel his touch, that has left a trail of fire in its path. All of my senses are heightened, and it isn't from the drug. I undo my braid and tame my thick hair with my fingers before braiding it again. I feel a strange from of empowerment from allowing myself to lose control. It makes me want to do it again.

I'm drawn out of the comfort of our makeshift cave by the sound of shouting. The stockroom gives way to a dairy cooler that also houses juices and beers and transitions directly into the main store. I make my way to the edge of cooler and peer between the lines of bottles at the commotion on the other side of the glass door. The step ladder used to stock the higher shelves is positioned at the edge of chips aisle. My eyes drift upward and I see a little girl, Rue perched on the highest shelf.

Rue is only twelve years old, Prim's age, but like me she is the oldest in her family. She has five younger brothers and sisters to care for and was caught stealing from Arena when she crashed into an unsuspecting Undersee's leg and a bag of potato chips popped beneath her sweatshirt. She too pays off her debt by stocking the store's shelves. She's so small that she can fly from shelf to shelf like a little bird without making a sound.

Rue is not alone though. A crowd of Caps have surrounded the step stool and their leader, Marcus Cato, lunges up the step stool towards her. She scurries across the top shelf with ease, just missing his furious grasp. There are two types of Caps. The ones that live their lives of privilege in peace and the ones that live their lives of privilege by making others miserable. We call these the Career Caps, because it is the only job that they will ever know. Marcus Cato is the fiercest of the Careers. His father is former military and now owns a chain of successful gyms along the East Coast. He's also in charge of security at Circenex, one of its earliest employees. In other words, he's extremely wealthy.

Cato lets this entitlement go to his head. He's bigger than most. He spends most of his time at a gym after all. And he uses his brawn and his bank account to intimidate others. Rue is probably the tiniest foe that he's ever encountered.

"Give me back my wallet!" He growls as he takes another swipe at her.

Rue darts from his grasp again. "Not until you put it back!" She shouts. "I saw you take it and the card in your wallet says you're not old enough to take it."

"You're being ridiculous!" He says. "I should have you fired for this!"

"Fine," she agrees. "Then you can show Mister Undersee what you have hidden in your pockets."

"You're making a huge mistake," he says with a frustrated grunt.

For the first time there's a brief flash of terror in Rue's eyes when she realizes who she's dealing with. Cato is stubborn, he never loses, no matter how long it takes the balance always shifts in his favor. Even if she drops the wallet now, this battle will not be over. Suddenly when I look at the top shelf, I see Prim huddled away from Cato's grasp and I jump into action.

I slide past the row of coolers to the stockroom door. "Is there a problem here?" I ask as I approach them. Cato's pack is smaller than usual only made up of him, his right hand Marvel who is tall and lanky and not overly threatening, and Clove who is a petite little spitfire. Even though I'm outnumbered, both of his accomplices step back warily. I do have a reputation after all.

"Jail bird," Cato grins, unaffected by my presence. In fact his eyes darken at the prospect, like he can't wait to take on a more worthy opponent. There's a lust in his gaze that I recognize. It's the same way that Peeta was looking at me earlier, when we were tangled together. The look made me feel like I was flying. Now, when it's reflected in Cato's eye, it makes me feel sick.

"Is there a problem," I repeat with more bite.

"I was just making a leisure Saturday morning purchase, when I was accosted by one of your fellow employees," he says with a smirk that makes my skin crawl. "It's my fault though, I should have known better. This place is already crawling with criminals."

I set my jaw and hold his eye unyielding. I will not give him the satisfaction of degrading me. "Are you all right, Rue?" I ask.

"They stole beer, Katniss," she calls back. "It's in their pockets."

Cato chuckles and it causes me to shudder. He takes a step towards me and although I want nothing more than to distance myself, I hold my ground. He cocks his head until our faces are mere inches apart. "You can check if you'd like."

I swallow thickly. My shoulders tense to my earlobes as I suppress the disgusted shiver that drives up my spine. I grasp my fingers into a fist and the swipe against the plastic case of my box cutter that's latched on my belt. My lips press together in a satisfied grin as I disengage the cutter and slip out the blade. "If you don't mind," I say suggestively.

He wiggles his eyebrows and lifts his hands over his head to allow me better access, throwing a cocky grin over his shoulder towards Marvel. I lift my right hand as a distraction and wiggle my fingers to make a show before I reach towards his waist. Just before my fingers brush the edge of his pocket, I dart my other hand forward armed with the blade and stab it into the lump in his jeans. There's a hissing sound as a liquid sprays from his pocket and spreads across his lap as if he's wet himself.

Marvel and Clove laugh with delight and even Rue begins to giggle from her perch. Cato on the other hand turns red. First from embarrassment, then from rage. He frees the can from his pocket and throws it across the store. It crashes into the refrigerated case behind me and it takes everything in me not to jump.

"This isn't over," he sneers. He begins to stalk down the aisle but is frustrated when he realizes that his crew is not following.

"You forgot something!" Rue calls out, satisfied by Cato's punishment. She tosses his wallet to the floor and it lands on his feet.

Cato huffs and bends over to retrieve it, his face still fuming from his humiliation. "We're leaving. Now!" He barks. Marvel and Clove comply, but they still can't contain their snickers. "This isn't over," he repeats. The flame in his eye pauses my heart with terror. I can't even comprehend the trouble that I've gotten myself into.


	5. Chapter 5

I help Rue down from the shelves and she thanks me for my help. When she returns to the boxes she was unpacking, the back of her shirt has come untucked and it sticks up like a little duck tail. I feel my heart clench in my chest and think of Prim.

For the rest of the morning I try to shake the venom behind Cato's stare as he left the store. Cato's not the type to let things go. Once you're on his radar, you become a permanent fixture. Years ago he was assigned a lab partner who ratted him out when he didn't do his share of the work. The poor boy was tortured so much he was forced to transfer. He'll come back for me, that much is obvious, but who else will enter his path in his quest for revenge. Prim is too small a target, at least I pray she is. But Peeta and Gale are certain to reap a part of the punishment.

I stare vacantly at my hands as I scan through an endless belt of groceries. Every time I lift my chin, I see his hungry eyes glaring at me, salivating at the chance to enact his revenge against me. I shake away the thoughts. Cato may be big, but he's not at all clever. I can already map out every one of his strategies to ambush me. He'll pick an opportunity to get me alone in case I get the upper hand again, that way he won't be humiliated in front of his friends. At the same time, he'll need a crowd nearby so that he can make a show of it in case of a victory. He'll wait till school on Monday, I'm certain of it.

I feel a sense of calm for the rest of the afternoon. I even allow myself an actual lunch break. Peeta wants to take me on a proper date, but instead we buy sandwiches from the deli counter and eat them on the loading dock while stealing kisses that taste like mayonnaise and tomatoes. There's a flash of red over Peeta's shoulder that's directed at the back door. My eye flits towards it before I kiss him again. I had forgotten about the cameras. I'll have to make up for the stunt I pulled with Cato if I want to stay in their good graces.

Peeta rests my head in his lap and unties my braid. His fingers comb through my hair and he frames it around my face like a halo.

"Penny for your thought?" He asks as he runs the pad of his thumb along my cheek.

"A penny?" I scoff. "Is that the going rate for my thoughts these days?"

He chuckles, "Honestly, I don't even know the value of a penny. That coin is mythical to me. I haven't seen a denomination less than a hundred in years."

"C note for your thought?" I tease. "Now that's a game I can get behind."

"How about just a kiss?" He asks before he lightly kisses my nose.

"Not worth it," I say with a shake of my head.

His hand strokes across the side of my face and his lips crease into a frown. "You know how I feel about you," he says gently. He loves me. He's told me as much. "How do you feel about me?"

I feel my stomach drop. I'm fond of Peeta, but I don't love him. That's an emotion that I've denied myself for years. Prim is the only exception that I've allowed and look at the trouble I've gotten myself into for it. If I allowed myself to love Peeta, he'd become another person I'd have to protect. I can't risk losing another person that I love. It's too painful.

I feel guilty for taking advantage of his love for me. I should tell him the truth. Tell him about the eyes that are watching us. The show I must put on to appease them. But I'm too selfish to let him go. "I want to keep you," I whisper.

He finds this answer satisfactory and he kisses me until I'm dizzy. When our break is over, he holds my hand until he drops me off at my register. As he walks back to the bakery department, I wonder how he's crept past my guard. I don't love Peeta Mellark, but in this moment, if I let myself, I think I could.

I float through the rest of my shift. My conflict with Cato is a distant memory and I've hardly thought of my argument with Gale or my suspicions of Haymitch. That is until Haymitch appears mere moments before closing.

"Hand it over," he says and reaches out his palm expectantly. His eyes are pointed and unamused. Whatever I've done this time has been quite the inconvenience for him, it would appear. I try to orchestrate a clever comeback, but then I realize what it is he's requesting.

He knows about the TJV. Peeta must have told him. I feel betrayal. Rage. Is this because I didn't tell him I loved him? Is Peeta really that calculating? My fingers worry along the edge of my leather wrist band and I drop my gaze in defeat. "Hand what over?" I ask.

"Don't play coy," he says with the roll of his eyes. "It makes you seem cocky. Nobody likes that." He extends his hand further and nods. "The box cutter. Now."

I feel a wave of guilt for once again misjudging Peeta and his intentions. I have to learn to trust him, yet a part of me is unwilling.

I try not to make my relief too obvious as I detach the plastic case from my belt loop. "Word travels fast, I see."

"You really out did yourself this time," he says as he inspects the short blade. He tries to remain stern, but I see a ghost of a smile dance across his lips in faint amusement. "I don't know how we're going to get you out of this one."

I place my hand on my hips, beaming with pride. "What do you mean? I'm a goddamn hero! They should award me a medal for defending this store's honor."

"How selfless," he replies dryly. "Now I have to do damage control," he emphasizes by displaying my confiscated box cutter, "on a Saturday night before word of your _heroics_ get too out of hand. Do you think that's how I want to spend my Saturday night?" Obviously not. Haymitch wants to spend his Saturday night at the bottom of a bottle. He wants to spend every night of the week in that manner. Every afternoon. Every morning even. In fact, I'm surprised by how coherent he seems at this hour.

I lift my chin and adopt a righteous tone. "A customer was attempting to steal and was harassing an employee in the process," I explain. "I intervened and tried to diffuse the situation. The customer then began to harass me by making lewd and suggestive comments so I defended myself." I pause. "Would you like to write this down? Do I need an official statement?"

"I'm sorry," he says gruffly. "All I heard was that a criminal stabbed a rich kid." He shakes his head again and moves to lean against the corner of an aisle. He points at me. "Behave," he instructs simply before he turns to leave.

He's almost out the door before I remember that there's something troubling me about him. "Haymitch, wait," I call out. He pauses to acknowledge me. "Why didn't you tell me that the Seam was outside the planned city limits."

He stares at me hard for a moment. "What does it matter?"

"Gale seems to think this will have a negative impact on our livelihood," I explain.

"Does he?" He chuckles.

"He thinks our landlord will sell off his lot because the land outside of Panem will be worthless," I say, watching him carefully to gauge his reaction.

Haymitch arches his brows thoughtfully, but then his expression settles into something unreadable.

"Then you better hope the buyer is generous and doesn't evict you," he says with little sympathy. "Still sounds nicer than a prison cell to me."

My eyes follow him as he moves to the door, his words offering me little comfort. I sigh heavily and my eye catches on an object that he's left on the shelf he was leaning against. I recognize the faded blue plastic of my box cutter that he has purposefully left behind. Oh Haymitch, always thorough with carrying out his disciplinary action.

I try to feel guilty for losing my temper with Cato, but I know that he deserved a taste of his own medicine. How anyone could side with that lug is beyond me. I won't apologize for it, no matter what it costs me.

Peeta comes to check on me as I'm locking up my register. "You almost done out here?" He asks.

"Just need to clean up," I tell him and feel a grin on my lips.

"Mr. Undersee seems to have lost his mind because he thinks I'm responsible enough to look after this establishment," he says, and he jingles the keys with a mischievous smile.

Peeta's been working at Arena for longer than Mr. Undersee and closes the store from time to time. He's one of the few employees to be trusted completely because he has no need to steal the food from the shelves.

He moves to the front entrance and locks up the outer door and then the secondary door before making his way back to Undersee's office to continue the closing routine. My eyes follow him and settle on the office door. Peeta has access to the cameras.

I'm not sure how the video is logged. I've only seen the system briefly. I wouldn't be surprised if they just used some VHS tapes and a VCR. Maybe if I could get my hands on a strong enough magnet, I can destroy the footage from this morning and save Haymitch the trouble of having to save my butt.

I've just finished sweeping the aisle along my scanning belt and I'm about to join Peeta to investigate Undersee's office when I hear something rustle. The primary lighting has been shut off and only a few small bulbs cast occasional bursts of light around the store. It's enough to see things fairly well, but the large room is now filled with shadows. The kind that put me on edge.

I hear the soft pad of footsteps, but as they get closer, I realize they're not soft at all. There's an additional feeling of dread when I notice that they're not coming from Mr. Undersee's office either. All of the other employees have left. It should only be Peeta and me.

I change the grip on my broom so that I am holding it like a baseball bat. Slowly I turn on the balls of my feet to allow for my eyes to scan my complete surroundings. There's an allusive chill in the air that causes my heartbeat to ring in my ears.

The footsteps begin to creep closer again. Then Marcus Cato is standing before me.

I let my shoulders relax and lower my weapon. "We're closed," I say unamused.

There's a glint in his eyes that makes me feel uneasy, but I don't let it show. People like Cato play off fear. So long as I don't give him that upper hand, I should be fine.

"That's fine," he says, and there's a menace to his voice that shoots shivers down my spine. "I wasn't looking to buy anything anyway," he says calmly. He moves to my checkout stand and runs his fingers along the magazine covers that line the aisle before he stops mere inches from me. "That is unless there's something you're selling."

"That depends," I say and fold my arms across my chest. "Have you gotten your hands on a better fake ID in the last twelve hours?"

"I'm not talking about beer, jailbird. Didn't you use to be some sort of mad scientist? Whipping up all kinds of cheap ways to get high." He leans forward and his eyebrows arch suggestively and I want to vomit at the stench of his overbearing cologne. "Sounds like you used to be so much fun." He laughs. "Who am I kidding? Of course you still are. What, with that little stunt you pulled earlier." He lifts my chin with his finger. I consider biting it, but instead clench my teeth together tightly and set my hard gaze with his. "Do you want to party?" He asks and his eyes grow dark. "Because you and me. We could have so much fun."

My body lurches. I can't take his close proximity for a moment longer. I narrow my eyes, tilt my head back and spit directly into his face.

"You bitch!" He shouts and lunges after me. He only attempts once and I snake away in time. I begin to stumble behind my counter to put distance between us when he reaches into his jacket pocket. "You think you're so clever, don't you? That you're so much smarter. Well you're nothing but a low life, trailer trash slut and you're probably going to spend the rest of your life in prison. You know where I'll be jailbird?"

"Counting your money by the pool as a distraction from that time you were bested by a low life, trailer trash slut?" I ask flatly.

"That's it," he growls and pulls his hand from his pocket to reveal a 9mm. I gasp, but am unable to make a sound. "Say it again, tough guy," he says, waving the gun at me. "Come on. I dare you."

All of my bravado evaporates in an instant. I feel my body trembling with fear and desperate tears form in the corners of my eyes. "What are you doing Cato?"

"I'm waiting for you to best me again, jailbird," he says. "Come on," he insists, gripping the gun tightly. The barrel taking aim at me. "Or did the poor mockingbird loose her voice?"

"What do you want me to say?" I spit back. "That you're the bigger man? That you win? Are you really threatening to kill me over a bruised ego?"

"You have a thing or two to learn about respect," he replies coldly, his hand unwavering. His thumb pulls back the safety and his pointer finger wraps tightly around the trigger. I feel my heart stop. He won't kill me. There's no way he will. But there's this crazed look in his eye. This darkness that consumes him. At this moment, I don't know what Marcus Cato will do.

I shut my eyes tightly and think of Prim. I wait for the sound of a gunshot but it never comes. Instead I hear a grunt and a crash. When I've opened my eyes, Peeta has wrestled Cato to the floor.

"Peeta, stop!" I plead.

Cato is larger than Peeta, he probably has at least twenty pounds on him. They roll across the white tiled floor, their sneakers squeaking against the polished surface as they try to get the upper hand. Peeta is one of the best wrestlers at Panem High, so he's able to twist Cato into a series of holds. Cato's brute strength however is quick to break free.

I grab my broom and creep behind Cato when his back is to me. I slam it across his shoulders as hard as I can and the wood of the handle shatters into small splinters. He absorbs the impact with barely more than a flinch and turns momentarily from his fight with Peeta to backhand me. I fly across the room and stumble into a shelf, sending boxes of Hamburger Helper to the floor. This gives Peeta just enough time to hit Cato square in the jaw. I hear a crack and think that maybe his nose is broken.

"Katniss, get out of here!" Peeta orders as he dodges another one of Cato's fist.

They continue to fight and I scramble around for something heavy to launch again. I can't leave Peeta. Not like this. The gun is cradled between them, the barrel pivots back and forth between them as if hypnotized in a dangerous game of eeny meeny miny mo. I wish I had my bow. Anything to wound him. My mind runs an inventory of every aisle, trying to identify a weapon.

I'm too late though.

A shot rings out. Both boys stand face to face, their arms tangled, their eyes wide and flashing with terror.

And then Peeta Mellark crumples to the floor.


	6. Chapter 6

Time stands still and sound ceases to exist. All that's left is the ringing of the gunshot that fades into the thumping of my heart in my ears. Without a second thought, I'm across the room and beside Peeta, scooping him into my arms to make sure he's still breathing. Peeta seems to be trapped between some stage of conscious and unconsciousness as his eyes open and close slowly, but never seem to focus on anything. He's alive though, and that's what's important.

I press my fingers to his neck until I feel his pulse, which is still racing from the adrenaline of his fight. Next I need to locate the bullet wound. I check his shoulder and chest, but they appear to be clean.

"Leg," he mumbles groggily through his shock.

That's when I see it. The thick dark stain that almost blends with his jeans. It's high on the thigh of his left leg nearly at his hip. I touch my fingers to it and his entire body flinches, revealing the pool of blood beneath him that's growing fast. If I don't do something, he could bleed to death. Even worse, if the bullet is trapped inside him there's no telling what sort of damage it has done. I wish that Prim were here or my mother even. They'd know what to do.

Taking a deep breath, I cup his face between my hands, now stained red from his blood. "I'm going to roll you over a bit," I warn. He nods and then lets out a fierce grunt when I lift his body to the side. His pant leg is soaked and matted against his body. I inspect where I imagine the bullet would have passed and find a hole that has been camouflaged by the thick clump of blood. It's not much of a relief, but it at least makes the injury manageable for now.

I've got to do something to stop the bleeding and his blood soaked jeans are only going to be a hindrance, but the thought of removing them puts me in another level of panic.

There's a chain link fence that lines a stretch of woods between the meadow and the forest that was erected to keep out predators. It became a minor inconvenience to Gale and me for about a week until animals began burrowing under it. We took their lead and cut the links on a weakened portion of fence, enough to create an opening to crawl under. The ends of the links were sharp though and one time Gale caught his shoulder pretty bad. He went to clean his wound in a nearby stream, while I climbed a tree with my back to him.

It wasn't just because I hated the sight of human blood, which was funny since I could skin and gut a dozen rabbits without batting an eye, it was the thought of Gale bathing in a stream. It made my body react in strange ways. Gale and I were strictly platonic, he was my partner and crime, and thoughts of his muscles flexing as water glistened on his bare skin were thoughts that I didn't want to be burdened with.

Peeta on the other hand is supposed to be my boyfriend, or something close to it. We're supposed to undress one another and admire every inch of flesh. Perhaps it's because I've _felt_ how much Peeta wants me, perhaps it's because I've felt the hunger myself, that undressing him makes me so nervous.

"I'm going to have to take your pants off," I tell him, my fingers trembling as I reach for the button on his jeans.

"You first," he says, a lilt of humor still present in his thick, groggy voice. I feel my entire body flush and I crawl up the length of him to press a kiss to his lips. "All better," he mumbles, delirious. "Just keep on doing that."

I go back to removing his jeans and he lifts his hips as best he can to assist me. "This isn't how I envisioned our first time undressing one another," he hisses and grits his teeth as the rough denim passes the bullet hole. "A fancy hotel room, the backseat of my car, maybe the stockroom again. The look of horror on your face was always the same at least."

I scowl at him and he flashes a weak grin. I untie his boots and pull pants off the rest of the way. There's a cooler right by the register with soft drinks and I grab a couple of bottles of water, handing one off to him to keep hydrated and using another to wash away the caked on blood that obscures his wound. Once it's suitably clean, I take his socks and fold them into makeshift bandages. I slip off my red work vest, remove the brass name tag and tie it tightly around his leg to help stop the bleeding.

While I consider my next move, I hear Cato. I was so focused on saving Peeta, I'd nearly forgotten he was still there.

"Shit, shit, shit," he says over and over again. "This wasn't supposed to happen." He holds both hands to his temple, the gun still clenched in his right, while he stares off in the distance.

"Why aren't you doing anything?" I shout at him, my voice strained by the tears I hadn't realized I was crying. "Call for help!"

He's broken from his catatonic state long enough to stare at me blankly. Great. The only person capable of carrying Peeta to safety has rendered himself completely useless after the mess he went about making.

"He needs a doctor," I say, hoping that he will become more responsive. Sighing heavily, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I take Peeta's hand and hold it over his leg. "Press as hard as you can," I instruct and place a kiss on his forehead before I climb to my feet.

I don't have a cellphone and Peeta's doesn't seem to be in his pocket, so I'll have to use the phone in Undersee's office. I've only taken a few steps when I hear the safety click on the gun in Cato's hands.

"Where do you think you're going?" He demands, the gun once again trained on me.

"To call an ambulance," I reply evenly.

He shakes his head frantically. "You can't do that," he says, his eyes wild.

"You can't be serious," I nearly scoff. "Given your track record for decision making today, I'm going to have to veto that one," I say and begin to turn back towards the manager's office.

"Don't move," he barks, causing me to jump. "Back on the ground," he says, and I rather not leave Peeta alone with this psychopath, so I oblige.

"Now what?" I say. I'm on my knees again beside Peeta, pressing the heel of my palm as hard as I can against his injured thigh. "You going to let him bleed to death?"

"Well I sure as hell aren't going to let you call the cops," he replies. "I'll think of something."

Peeta's face is pale, his skin hot to the touch. He murmurs something incomprehensible as I stroke my fingers through his sweat drenched hair. "Cato," I say pleadingly. "If you let him die. It's over for you."

His breath catches and he begins to shake his head furiously again. "Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit..." begins the mantra again.

An hour passes, maybe two. The socks I used to dress Peeta's wounds are soaked through with blood and the dark red stain has even seeped through the polyester vest. He begins to drift off again and I shake him gently. "Stay with me," I instruct. I keep my fingers wrapped around his wrist, pressed against his pulse point. It's weaker than before, but the pounding keeps me at ease.

Cato's eyes are wide while he watches us. His lips look dry, his jaw has been hanging agape for so long. Some sort of recognition seems to flicker across his cold gaze and he reaches into his pocket for his phone. I feel relief. He's come to his senses, finally. He dials a number that's longer than 911 and puts the phone to his ear.

"I've done something," he mumbles. "I need help." There's a pause. "Arena Grocery Store."

Not a second later the room begins to fill with the flash of blue lights. Sirens. This wasn't the company that Cato was expecting because in an instant he's ushering us between the registers. "Get down and stay down," he says, waving the gun around again for good measure.

The outer doors rustle and I hear the deputies faintly through the dual layers of glass. "There's nobody here, Sheriff," he says. "The Mellark kid is probably off giving it to that Seam girl at the Slag Heap, just like Abernathy said."

"Try explaining that one to his mother," I hear the voice of Sheriff Crane. "She'd believe he's lying dead in a ditch somewhere over him getting his jollies on with some Seam trash, in fact she'd probably prefer it. I swear if they weren't so fucking rich, we wouldn't have to send out a fucking search party for a kid that's two hours late from work."

The deputy knocks roughly against the glass for good measure and they wait for a moment. "Well it doesn't look like he's here."

The sound of their voices begin to grow distant when I hear another familiar shout. "What do you mean nobody is here?" Haymitch says. "There's a pool of blood right there! Don't you see it?"

"I thought I told you to wait at the station," Sheriff Crane says, sounding annoyed.

"And maybe I would have if you two geniuses could properly identify a crime scene. If something doesn't smell rotten in Denmark, then you two must have one hell of a cold."

"That does look like blood," the deputy says and I recognize that voice. Deputy Cray.

"Fine, let's get these doors open and call for backup," Crane says tiredly, as if doing his job is some sort of huge hassle to him.

I let out a sigh of relief and hug Peeta tightly against my chest. We're going to be rescued.

"Where are you?" Cato says under his breath, his eyes darting around the narrow corridor frantically in search of an escape.

"It's over," I tell him, and I can't help but feel a little pleased. "You should have gotten out while you had the chance."

"Like hell it's over," he says and hooks an arm around me to pull me against him roughly. His body is so rigid that it's terrifying, not as terrifying as the cold metal of the gun barrel that's pressed against my neck.

"Take me," Peeta pleads, but he's too weak to move much. "If you need a hostage, use me."

Cato laughs at him and tightens his grip around me. "We're untouchable," he says. "It's jailbird against you and me."

He must be completely delusional if he thinks that to be true. "How is that?" I ask. "You're the one holding the gun."

I hear the outer doors to Arena slide open and metal jingling as the deputies begin to work on the second set of doors. Cato poises himself to use me as a hostage when another voice enters the scene.

"Pardon, Sheriff," he says. His voice is calm and even, he's done this before. "A word please."

Cato releases me at the sound of our newest guest and I scramble to the edge of the aisle to distance myself from him. "We're untouchable," he repeats, causing my stomach to turn.

"All right boys, our job is done here," I hear Sheriff Crane announce. "Agent Brutus is going to take it from here."

_Agent Brutus._ An employee of Circenex. Part of the security team. He's here to clean up Cato's mess and make sure I never sing about it. If Crane leaves, I'll be railroaded for sure. I have to make them stay. I need to figure out a way to get them to stay.

"How does a private security guard have any jurisdiction?" Haymitch demands. "Where are you going?" Haymitch. I need to let him know that I'm here.

"I said our job is done," Crane repeats. "Mr. Abernathy, it's time for you to go."

Something shiny catches my eye, the brass name tag that I had discarded from my vest. It catches the light from the flood lights and the surface reflects like it's glowing. I don't know Morse Code or anything, but if I can shine the light out the door, I'll at least get Haymitch's attention. I reach for the pin, my eyes trained carefully on Cato to be sure he isn't watching. I rock the small pin against the tile floor, my eyes flitting towards it for only a second to check that it's reflecting.

"If Brutus can buy his way into an investigation, than so can..." Haymitch trails off and I know he's caught sight of my warning signal. A faint silver light shines on the ceiling in response, traveling like a parachute across the length of the store until it settles on the aisle across from my register. The shelf that he left my faded blue box cutter on. Haymitch is sending me a sign.

I check on Cato, who seems distracted while he anxiously awaits for Brutus to take over. If I can draw him out in the open, he can't be ignored. A box cutter isn't much of a defense, but if I take him by surprise, I may be able to get the gun free.

I shift my weight to the soles of my feet so that I'm on my haunches and ready to take flight. The last thing I see before I begin to run, is Peeta, desperately trying to catch my eye as he shakes his head, urging me to stay still because he knows what I'm trying to do.

The shelf is only about ten yards away and I make it there in a few long strides. Cato is right on my heels though and in a second we're on the other side of the store, again obscured by the tall shelves. "What do you think you're doing jailbird?" Cato demands. The cutter is on the highest shelf and just out of my reach. I use the lower shelf as a step stool and hoist myself up the side of the rack, using my other foot to kick roughly against Cato's chest. "That's it," he shouts and grabs me by my braid, yanking me roughly until I nearly topple to the ground. Before I lose my balance, my fingers brush against the cutter. With all my might, I stretch my hand upward and grab hold of the weapon before falling to the ground.

I land against Cato's chest and he grabs me by the throat, pinning me against the shelves and pointing the gun directly in my face. "Done playing hero?" He says, his voice menacing as he leans uncomfortably close.

My hands tighten around the plastic cutter and my thumb easily engages the blade. "Not quite yet," I say, and jam the short blade into the arm that's holding the gun.

Cato drops the gun in surprise and releases his grasp from my throat to remove the blade. "What the hell was that?" He bellows before he throws me back against the shelf.

In the scramble I don't hear Peeta stumble across the floor, but suddenly there's a clicking sound as he shouts, "Freeze," and attempts to shoot the gun into the air. But nothing comes out. The gun isn't loaded. Cato never planned on shooting anyone, but the moron forgot to check the chamber before he went off on his little game of chicken.

Peeta collapses to the floor and Cato takes off running just as Brutus and the Sheriff get the door open. "Took you long enough," I say to Haymitch as I gather Peeta in my arms and hold onto his hand tightly until the ambulance comes and takes him away.

* * *

It's morning when I'm able to get to the hospital. Flurries of doctors and nurses hover around Peeta's private room to form a human barricade. I keep close to the wall, certain that I won't be welcomed but avoiding the request that I leave.

Peeta's parents sit on a bench down the hall, presumably speaking to a series of lawyers and publicists in order to best strategize this little incident. His father's eyes flicker in my direction and I slip back into the nearest doorway before I'm seen. I wait a few moments before I allow myself to peek again and see that his father has put away his phone and is now guiding Mrs. Mellark down the hall towards the hospital cafeteria. Apparently I had an accomplice that I wasn't aware of.

For once Peeta's room is unsupervised and I slip in undetected. He's still unconscious and his body attached to a series of beeping monitors. There's something strange about a person when they sleep. Peeta's just a boy. His features soft, his cheeks full. He's like Prim in a way. Too innocent to deal with delinquents like me. I reach out to brush his blond curls from his forehead, my fingers linger as I touch his cheek.

I'm startled when someone claps behind me. "You put on quite a show, sweetheart. If I didn't know any better, I'd almost believe you."

Haymitch.

He lacks his usual amusement, which means that yesterday's luck hasn't turned yet. "Please Haymitch," I say, still looking down at Peeta. "Not today."

"I've got some developments on your case," he says. He glances over his shoulder to be sure we're alone, we must be discreet. Perfect. "The security videos from Arena disappeared from the Sheriff's Office last night," he says.

I laugh. Of course they did. Brutus probably had private dicks circling the station like a bunch of gnats the second evidence arrived. Now it's his word against mine with Peeta as the swing vote. Peeta may find me and my braid irresistible, but I doubt he'd take on the word of a fellow Cap and gain the status of town pariah for a little spring fling.

"Let me guess," I say. "Self defense."

Haymitch gives me a knowing look and shakes his head incredulously. "You stabbed the guy with a box cutter in front of several witnesses," he says.

"Into a can of beer!"

"The story I'm hearing right now is that this Cato kid came back to the store to pick up some aspirin for his poor mother," he says, and his tone is so dry, there's no way he believes a word of it. "That you attacked him with a box cutter again because you were reprimanded as a result of your earlier encounter. He claims that after you stabbed him, you reached into your vest and pulled a gun on him."

"That's not true," I exclaim quickly. "The gun's not mine. It has to be registered."

"The numbers were filed off," he says. "You know where you get weapons that have no classification numbers on them?"

I shake my head a few times because I know exactly what Haymitch is implying. "A black market like The Hob," I say, even though it's not necessary.

"Cato wrestled the gun from you and in the process, accidentally shot Peeta in the leg," he concludes. "They haven't gotten a statement from Peeta yet, but from what I hear the Catos' lawyers and the Mellarks' lawyers have been pretty tight over the past twelve hours."

"So without the tapes, I may as well lay across some railroad tracks," I say.

"Not exactly," says Haymitch. "They're not the only ones with a copy of the tapes." Haymitch reaches into his pocket and reveals a stack of disks. "Undersee had a backup hard drive and made a copy before his computer was seized for evidence this morning. Passed them along to me."

I feel relief for a moment, but Haymitch still doesn't look very happy. "There's the proof. What else do we need?"

"That's not the only video of interest in the compilation from yesterday," he says, and the way he's looking at me, I can tell that he's disappointed. "The cameras caught a lot more than Cato pulling a gun on you."

My heart stops and I can feel the color drain from my face. The TJV, the stockroom. I didn't think they could see us from there, but apparently the security at Arena was tighter than I thought.

"There's video of you selling drugs to Peeta," he says what I already know. "And then he slips you an additional sum of money in what could be interpreted as an exchange for... favors." He presses his lips together in a tight line and shakes his head. "There's no shade of gray on this one sweetheart, distributing narcotics is in direct violation of your parole."

"I didn't think anyone was watching," I say as if it will make things better. "So we're at a stalemate. Cato's indiscretions for ours."

Haymitch crosses the small hotel room and lowers his voice to a harsh whisper. "You better hope that when that boy wakes up," he says and points a finger in Peeta's direction, "that he has hearts in his eyes. A Seam girl with a record isn't going to be able to take on one of the most powerful families in town. If you can keep the Mellarks in your corner you may have a chance. But you can't come off as some gold digger hanging on for dear life to his coattails. You have to keep up this star crossed lovers act and boy do you have to sell it."

Only a Cap can beat a Cap and if I want to avoid dragging my family through the mud, I'll have to play the part. It's not fair, but that's the way Panem is.

"So Cato gets away with it then? For holding us hostage? Nearly killing Peeta?"

"Look at it this way Sweetheart," Haymitch says. "If Cato burns, you burn with him." He taps his finger against his temple and then points at me. _Think._ And with that last bit of advice, he leaves me alone with my thoughts.

"Katniss?" Peeta says from his hospital bed.

My heart swells in my chest at the sound of his voice. I fly across the room and scoop his hand into mine, holding onto it for dear life. "Peeta," I say.

"What were you and Haymitch talking about?" He asks, his eyes betray him. They're far too honest because I can see the pain behind them. "Keeping up the act? What act?"

"They've been watching me," I explain.

"They?" Peeta narrows his eyes. "Who's they?"

"The Sheriff's Office, the parole board," I say and I can already hear my voice breaking. "They wanted to send me back to prison so they were watching me, to catch me if I made another mistake." I chew on the inside of my cheek as I gather my words. "They didn't like me, but they liked you."

Recognition flashes across his tired blue eyes and his soft features grow rigid and unforgiving. "So all of this? You and me? This whole time, you were just pretending?" He demands, his breath catching as he looks away.

"No," I say. "If I didn't play along they were going to find a way to put me away. Tax evasion, poaching, trespassing. They'd try me as an adult and even if it just turned out to be fines, it would put my family under." I realize that I haven't made much of a case, so I tighten my grip on his hand. "Peeta, I care about you."

His jaw tightens but he doesn't pull his hand away. "Your sentence is almost through," he nods at our joined hands. "What's the point to keep on pretending any longer?"

"The shooting last night. Cato wants to railroad me for it. Pin the whole thing on me," I say and drop my eyes in shame. "You have to pick a side."

"And pathetic gullible Peeta is supposed to side with you because you kiss me and hold my hand," he say with venom that burns me. His hand slips from mine and he folds his arms over his chest.

"He's claiming that the gun was mine. There aren't any serial numbers to trace it. He's saying that you got caught in the crossfire when he tried to wrestle the gun from me."

He chuckles, "Who cares what he says. There's security footage to prove otherwise."

"Not anymore," I say and nervously bite my lip. "Someone took the videos from the Sheriff's Station last night. It's his word against mine."

"And mine," he concludes.

"Cato's team has the videos and that's not the only thing on them." I turn away so that my eyes are trained on my blood stained sneakers. "The drugs in the stockroom, Peeta. It's on tape. Cato's people know. If we stick to the truth, we'll both pay too."

Peeta must know that he'll get but a slap on the wrist. That when I say "we'll both pay" I mean that I'll do time, while he'll take a drug counseling course and maybe do some community service on the side. He holds my gaze for a long moment, but his expression is unreadable.

Peeta's parents and who I assume is his lawyer appear in the doorway. "What's she doing here?" His mother sneers. She's a charming woman, that Mrs. Mellark.

"Miss, if you'd excuse us, we have to go over Mr. Mellark's statement," his lawyer says.

I swallow thickly as I rise to stand, my hands smoothing over my stained shirt from the night before. My feet are too heavy to lift and I stand in the center of the hospital room like prey about to be struck.

"Wait," Peeta says, and I feel his fingers wrap around my forearm. "Katniss was there too, she should stay."

"Peeta," his mother warns.

"If we're cutting deals, Katniss is protected too," says Peeta. He reaches for my hand and draws it towards his lips, his eyes staring down his mother defiantly. "If we'll be putting on a show," he murmurs against the back of my palm so only I can hear.

_**End**_

* * *

_Sorry it took so long to update, I've actually had majority of this written for a few weeks now, but was missing the middle scene. Right, so this is supposed to be the end of the first part of the story since it follows the structure of the first book. I have a second half planned out that follows Catching Fire and Mockingjay (ie we don't really meet Snow until Catching Fire), but I'm not sure if I'm going to continue it. It sort of follows Katniss becoming a Cap and ties up the political drama that was set up in this part. I may come back to it after I finish my other fic and post it as a sequel. Thanks to everyone that read this one! Hope you enjoyed it!_


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